


A World More Full of Weeping

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade fulfills his Fae Family's Marriage Debt and gets engaged to Mycroft Holmes, solving one Family's problem--only to gain a whole slew of new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from W.B. Yeats' poem "the Stolen Child." Many, many thanks to Laurelized on Tumblr for sending me in that direction! And many more thanks to all the wonderful Tumblr folk who encouraged me in this madness. You're all the best.

*********

Sally was laughing. “Oh my god, sir, you had curls!”

“Oi!” Lestrade shouted, and grabbed the picture before Dimmock could get a look. “Where’d you get this?”

“From your desk,” Sally said, still laughing. She was trying to hide it now, bless her, hand up to cover her smile. Lestrade tried not to notice how Anderson was, again, staring at her. It wasn’t his business; he wasn’t Sally’s father, or her big brother, no matter how often he felt like it. And she wouldn’t appreciate him acting like it.

“I didn’t bring this in,” he muttered, looking at the photo. Him and his mum, out at some beach in Kent. A picture from his nineteenth birthday, shortly before she gave it up.

It used to be he’d feel angry, resentful, when he came across some reminder of her. Now there was just sadness, because he was forty now, and he understood. God help him, but he understood.

“Sir, I just want to say, respectfully, that you were adorable,” Sally said seriously. Lestrade glared at her and swept into his office, letting the door swing shut behind him. She was chuckling again out there, trying to describe the photo to Dimmock and Anderson, who was still eyeing her up, damn him.

Sally was new to his squad, the brightest DC of the bunch--passed over by Gregson, the dim bastard. But Lestrade couldn’t mind because, by all rights, as the junior DI, he should have been saddled with Dimmock. He’d take Sally’s determination over Dimmock’s bootlicking any day.

An attitude that would leave him a DI for the rest of his career, and that would shape Sally’s career much like his own. Lestrade tried to shake that cynical, horrifically honest thought out of his head, and turned his attention back to the photo and to what it meant.

Family. He hated the word. Always told people he didn’t have any; that his mum had died young and his dad wasn’t around. The last was true. His dad hadn’t stuck around. His mum had made her choice long before she met him, and that choice always held them apart.

And his mum had died, yes; but she hadn’t died young. Not even by the standards of her kind. He and his dad, they’d been her last hurrah. Her last attempt at finding something to go on for. And not even an adorable kid with curls had been enough. Not a normal, human one, anyway.

But her Family was still around, such as it was. That’s what the photo meant. Family was around, and they wanted something.

Well, fuck. Lestrade shoved the photo in his briefcase and grabbed his coat. He’d deal with it and get back to his real life in the morning. They’d forget about the curls sooner or later, even if he had to hunt down a photo of Gregson in drag from the New Year’s party six years ago.

*********

Lestrade had always like his uncle George. Of course, the man wasn’t really his uncle; God only knew what relation they really had, and maybe not even Him. But George had always been, well, normal. Comparatively.

He was sitting on the kitchen table, great big shock of white hair falling all over his face, kicking his feet like a six year old, squeezing honey out of the bear-shaped bottle right into his mouth. He nodded as Lestrade walked in and greeted him with a hearty, “Mmph!”

“Hello, Uncle George,” Lestrade said wearily, and handed him the photo. Or tried to; George had tipped his head back and was trying to swallow, clutching the bear to his chest.

He’d always thought George was a clown when he was kid, mostly because of the dusty old suits he wore, always too big and always in different faded hues. But he’d worn black, and black only, after Elaine’s death.

“Mmph,” George said again, and then licked his chops noisily. Lestrade checked the refrigerator dubiously; there was a bottle chilling there, something unlabeled and ancient. George’s, of course. He handed it over.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

George had made sure Lestrade knew his Family, and about his Family--well, as much as he could understand, anyway. It had been George who made Lestrade understand what had happened to his mum, when Elaine started to fade, and then disappeared like a soap bubble popping. If there was anyone in the world Lestrade owed anything, it was George.

Right now, that seemed like a very dangerous thing.

“You’re going to want one, too, kid,” George said, in his low, rumbly voice. “Think hard about what you want, and check it again.”

What he really, really wanted was coffee. Something rich, dark, and hot enough to melt the chill settling around his bones. Lestrade pulled a large mug from the crisper and settled back against the counter, mumbling his thanks.

“What did I teach you about Debt?” George demanded.

Lestrade sighed. Lessons, again. “The world operates by favours. A favour must be acknowledged by a return of favour. If the favour is not returned, equally and promptly, there is Debt. Debt must be acknowledged. When the Family chooses, it may call in its Debts.”

George nodded pensively, looking between his two bottles. “And what does that mean to you?”

“Nothing much.” Lestrade shrugged. “I’m not Family.”

“You haven’t actually chosen,” George pointed out. “You didn’t have to, which means you could, technically, be considered Family.”

“I’m not a Wintered, or Winters, or whatever other line is claimed.” Lestrade took another sip of his coffee. “I’m human. Mum knew it.”

“What Elaine knew and what she acknowledged are two different things,” George said. He drew in a deep breath. “Greg, if your Family needed you, would you help them?”

“I’m not agreeing to anything without full disclosure,” Lestrade said immediately. This made George grin, the wild, savage grin that tended to come before an impromptu dance or trick or fight.

“Our Family has a Debt. To the Deepened Family. It’s a big one yet. Six or eight lines.” George rolled his head back on his shoulders, cracking his neck. Lestrade winced at the sound. “They’re seers. Got a line called Holmes, which is calling it in.”

“You want me to settle your Debt?” Lestrade almost laughed. He put his mug down and went to check the refrigerator again; pulled out a lager. “I’m human, George. Can’t do much, me.”

“No one needs to know that,” George snapped, “so shut up. You know enough to pass as Fae, even if you can’t do anything. We’re all weak, Greg. We’re almost gone. Our blood is thin and your cousins, the best of our youth, are only a trick or two away from human. And you’re a detective, so something’s obviously gone right.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “If you knew how hard it was to get people to tell me the truth--”

“Irrelevant.” George pointed the honey bear at him. “If you’re accepted, the Debt is met.”

“What kind of Debt?” He vaguely remembered that there were Death Debts. Probably George wouldn’t want him for something like that. Christ, why was he even thinking this?

George shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Marriage Debt.”

“No,” Lestrade said flatly, and took a long drink.

“We owe them a Marriage, Greg, and they’ve called it in.” George looked down at his bottles again. “Give it half a thought, will you? You’re forty, you’re alone--”

“Because I like it,” Lestrade burst out. “My job takes up all my time, and what’s left I like to have to myself. Christ! It’s not like I’m ancient; I can still pull a bloke when I want to--” The words left his mouth before he could think it through, and he blushed hard.

“You’re alone,” George continued after a decent pause, “and you’re likely to remain so. Not in love with anyone; not looking to be. The intended--Mycroft Holmes--is male, and has indicated no preference for wife or husband. And, Greg, if you won’t do it--if you won’t even try--then remember, your cousins are in line.”

Lestrade almost choked. His eldest cousin, Sophie, was only seventeen.

“Exactly,” George said, reading Lestrade’s expression easily. “And she’s seeing a young man, you know. Something Carter. Nothing serious, not in the long run; but right now, it’s everything. You can remember seventeen.”

He put the lager down. Everything tasted sour, suddenly.

“And that’s it, you know. She’ll never have anyone else. One bright romance, then everything tied up, neatly, in a bow.” George sighed. “But there’s no one else, Greg. Even you’re a long shot.”

Just the thought of it, of little Sophie having to give up her entire life, one way or the other. Marriage or choosing, and how could she make either decision at seventeen? At least he had a few years, could actually weigh and make a decision with some understanding of the consequences... Lestrade blinked and waved his hand in front of his face. “What are you doing? Stop it.”

“It’s the truth,” George said, and there was some dark humour to that.

“Tell me the rest of it, then,” Lestrade snarled. “Did you even try? Did you even look for another way before writing me off?”

His mum had told him about it; the sound of someone speaking the truth. It was like a bell, resonant, thrumming with the very rhythm of the earth. Spoken by Fae, even humans could hear it, she’d said.

“I wouldn’t ask you if there was any other option I thought you’d be amenable to,” George said, and the whole flat seemed to shake with it.

And to think, there’d been a time he’d been disappointed to be human. Now he could only wish he was fully.

“I don’t have to give up my job, do I?” he asked, hopelessness creeping into his voice.

“I don’t know.” George was watching him now, dark eyes glittering. “I can’t say I know much about the Holmeses. But this is sudden, Greg. They’re demanding a signature by Sunday’s nightfall. You may have leverage. I can’t really say, but it feels...” He waved his hand vaguely.

“There’s something bad around it,” Lestrade supplied dully. Of course there was. No sense in making his arranged marriage to a Fae boring, right?

“Something off. And yet, I think you can handle yourself, no matter what this turns out to be.” There was a strange wistfulness in his lined face. “You always have. You’re tough, for a human.”

“Humans are always tough,” Lestrade said, putting his bottle down. Tough, because Faerie lived in its illusions, which softened everything, and humans who lived long enough had all of their illusions torn away. Even the illusion of freedom, it seemed. “What do I have to do?”

*********

It was a very simple document. It didn’t have to be complicated.

“I, the undersigned of the Wintered Family, acknowledge my earnest intent to marry Mycroft Holmes of the Deepened Family. Upon verification of sincerest intent in signature, professed by the power in my blood, I acknowledge my engagement and will begin immediately the preparations for the Wedding Ceremony.”

It was printed in black ink and a neat hand on thick, creamy paper. Lestrade read it through three more times. Simple. Terrible.

George had left him with the contract and a silver pen, with which he was supposed to stab his finger and sign in blood. In blood, because the Wintered Family had the very dubious gift of truth, and his blood would reveal whether or not he was prepared to carry this out.

He’d held onto it for two days. It was late Sunday afternoon, and there was no time left. If his blood was too human, if he couldn’t fool it at all, then George had to know before nightfall. So that Sophie could sign.

He’d closed two cases in two days. Even made a strong start on the paperwork. If he had to give it up--

“Think like that and you’ll never convince it you’re genuine,” Lestrade muttered, and picked up the pen. Fixed his mind on Sophie, on her bright grin and her dark curls. Adorable, just like Sally’d said he’d been. The cousin he’d come to know after his mum’s death; the cousin who had made it bearable to know his Family in the aftermath.

He could do it for her. It didn’t matter what he’d have to give up; at least he’d have had something to give up. He drew the sharp nib of the pen across his thumb and felt a momentary weakness, a greying of his vision.

Gregory Lestrade. He signed it with less than his customary grace, gathering blood twice more. It gleamed bright in the afternoon sun, red and messy.

Then it disappeared.

“Shit--” Lestrade swore, and then dropped the pen with a much louder “Fuck!” as his signature reappeared, smaller and edged to the top half of the page. On the bottom, another block of printing appeared, along with a flowing signature.

“I, the undersigned of the Deepened Family, acknowledge my earnest intent to marry Gregory Lestrade of the Wintered Family. Upon verification of sincerest intent in signature, professed by the power in my intended’s blood, I acknowledge my engagement and will begin immediately the preparations for the Wedding Ceremony.

Mycroft Holmes”

Accepted. His stomach twisted. It had been accepted. Someone’s hand grasped his shoulder, and Lestrade looked up into George’s dark eyes.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” he said. The words were flat and heavy.

“What now?” Lestrade asked. The paper curled itself up and disappeared, and Lestrade’s hands clenched into fists of their own accord.

George heaved a great sigh and squeezed Lestrade’s shoulder tightly. “Now I’ve got to hand you off to your new Family, kid.”

*********

“Don’t take anything,” George instructed. “Wear something comfortable. Nothing black. But I wouldn’t go so far as to wear anything cheery.”

If Lestrade had ever had anything “cheery,” it was long gone. He opted for an old, comfortably worn pair of jeans and a grey knit jumper. For a long moment, he held onto his wallet and keys, until George rapped irritably on the door.

“Leave ‘em, Greg. Gives you an excuse to come back,” he said, and Lestrade felt a bit of warmth at that. George was still trying to look out for him, at least.

“So where do we go?” he asked dully.

“Crossroads anywhere will do.” George was staring out the window, at the intersection visible from the flat. “Greg. Usually, this would be a time of celebration, right? There’d be some time to choose, to find someone... someone who wanted to go. I don’t think they’ll expect it of us.” He shook his head. “Five days isn’t a lot of time to become accustomed--”

“Five days?” Lestrade repeated. He was even warmer, now. “You really did try to get us out of this.”

The look George gave him was razor sharp, but Lestrade only grinned.

“What I’m saying, kid, is you might be collected by a whole damn Family. I don’t know; everything about this is strange, but.” George shook his head and sighed heavily.

“George,” Lestrade said, chided really. But then his uncle turned away and wiped at his face, and Lestrade bit his lip, turning away as well.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” he said simply.

They walked down to the street, inexplicably empty. Greg put his hands in his pockets, looking north along the street as George kept his gaze due east.

The sunlight was heavy and hazy, but the air only grew more chill. After a moment, there came the sound of footsteps, and they both turned south to watch as a man appeared: tall, ginger, with a long nose and high brow, expensive three-piece suit hanging comfortably on his tall, lean frame. Human enough to appear human, and freckled at that. Lestrade was raising an eyebrow at the umbrella when the man stopped dead, mouth open just a bit.

“Well met,” George said guardedly. The man was staring at Lestrade, seemingly perplexed by his appearance. Lestrade tried not to tense.

“W-well met,” the man said, turning to George, blinking rapidly. “I’m Mycroft Holmes, of the Deepened Family. This--I’m sorry, you are Gregory Lestrade?” He looked again at Lestrade, marginally more controlled.

“I am,” Lestrade confirmed, and tried not to back away, get George between himself and the man--Mycroft, he meant. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. With the Yard,” he added meaningfully, even as George nudged him.

“The yard--oh, New Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said. A sudden bright interest showed in his face, and the surprise, obviously a rare expression to his face, disappeared. “You have a job.”

“And I’d like to keep it,” Lestrade added bluntly.

“But of course,” Mycroft said immediately, and smiled a bit, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But we must make our announcement first, if you don’t mind.”

Lestrade darted a glance at George, who looked just as confused as he felt. “Yeah, well. Right.”

“Do you have a--it’s called a shift, isn’t it? In the morning?” Mycroft asked politely. Lestrade checked to see if he was still standing on solid ground. He felt as if it had been pulled out from under him.

“Yes--”

“Then we’ll do this quickly, so that you can be rested,” Mycroft said and smiled again. “Just a small announcement to my mother tonight. We’ll let her plan the other. Your Family will of course be invited--”

“Your mother and I will discuss that,” George said sharply. He didn’t touch Lestrade, but he did step closer. “She knows how to find me.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his manner becoming colder. “Thank you. Gregory?”

“What?” Lestrade looked between the two of them, eyes wide.

“Shall we go?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head to the side. He turned, gestured for Lestrade to follow him.

“Be careful,” George said, voice so low Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d really heard it. He walked up to Mycroft and, declining to take his arm, looked back at George one last time.

The city faded.

*********

George tended to travel in shades of pinkish-grey, with the taste of peppermint. It was something Lestrade had taken for granted, having never traveled with anyone else, not even his mum.

But Mycroft traveled in a flash of liquid-silver light and the warm scent of burning wood. Lestrade grabbed at his arm then, though it was over almost as it began, a large, dark hall materialising around them. Mycroft’s hand was cool on his own as he took in the wide, curving stairs, all deep, rich wood, leading the eye up to the high ivory walls and a graceful, gold chandelier that brightened as he looked up at it.

“My mother’s hall,” Mycroft said quietly. Lestrade looked at him, then had to fight the urge to turn away from the intensity in his storm-blue eyes. “Let me speak, won’t you? She’s... she’s very proper.”

“All right,” Lestrade said, and shrugged. “Guess I haven’t much to say, after all.” He carefully extracted his hand and took a step, expecting that Mycroft would lead the way then, but he was still. “Are we going?”

“I--” Mycroft shook his head suddenly, and smiled with a complete lack of feeling. “We are. My apologies, Gregory.”

And now he moved, but Lestrade held still. “Lestrade.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow and tilted his head, so very carefully polite.

“I’m called Lestrade. I prefer it,” he added, and stuck his hands back in his trouser pockets. Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, and then abruptly turned his back.

“If that’s what you prefer,” he said, and began to walk. Lestrade followed him, their footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor that nevertheless found a natural pattern in the wood, all curves and curls of the grain, leading to a set of double-doors.

Mycroft opened them and called out in a surprisingly warm voice, “Good evening, Mummy.”

Mummy. Lestrade bit his lip and did not at all grin. Mycroft gestured for him to come into a large, sumptuous study, filled with plush furniture and bookshelves lining whatever walls weren’t dominated by the large windows or windowed doors that revealed a dark garden and high moon. A woman with long, dark hair was sitting at one of the window seats, looking over at them with bright, sharp, amused eyes.

“Oh, Mycroft, what have you done?” she murmured, and Lestrade wasn’t even entirely sure he’d heard it. She stood, closing her book and leaving it on the seat she’d abandoned, and fairly glided over the floor. Fae, very, very much Fae, Lestrade figured.

She didn’t look much like Mycroft; both were tall, pale, and had the same dark blue eyes. But she was hard and angular, not very human in her brilliance, and as she got closer Lestrade had to look away. Her eyes were too knowing.

“Mummy, this is Gregory Lestrade, my intended,” Mycroft said, his voice soft but confident. Lestrade swallowed when Mycroft took his hand in a possessive grip. “He’s of the Wintered Family--”

“Elaine’s son, yes,” she interrupted, and now Lestrade met her gaze. She looked at him from head to toe, smiling at last. “It is a pleasure, Gregory.”

“He prefers Lestrade, Mummy,” Mycroft said immediately, and his eyes flicked to gauge Lestrade’s expression just as Lestrade attempted to read his, so their eyes met.

“A pleasure,” Lestrade said, turning again to Mycroft’s mum. She was still smiling, a strange, knowing smile, amused for reasons Lestrade couldn’t guess. He held out his right hand, his free hand, and she shook it, the smile becoming a grin.

“Very human in our manners, aren’t we?” she said. “Lestrade. Please call me Moira.”

“I know that the scheduling is difficult,” Mycroft began delicately, and Moira laughed, the sound rich and bright.

“Oh, don’t worry, my darling boy. It will be the work of a moment to add your announcement to Sherlock’s. How sweet for you, Lestrade,” she said, turning back to him with twinkling eyes, “to share the spotlight. Perhaps this will overshadow some of your celebrity.”

“My--” Lestrade cut himself off, looking again to Mycroft for help. Celebrity?

“And someday, perhaps, your brother may forgive you,” Moira continued, smiling benignly at her son. “What a coup, Mycroft. I am proud.”

“Mummy,” he said quietly, reprovingly. He squeezed Lestrade’s hand and flashed an approximation of a grin at Lestrade’s questioning glare. “We have a few things left to do; if you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all.” Moira patted her son’s cheek and hesitated, looking at Lestrade. There was something soft and sad in her eyes, but she said only, “Welcome, and well-met, Lestrade.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, his voice rough. “And well-met.”

Mycroft pulled him back out of the study, courteously heading to the front doors before traveling again, allowing Lestrade only a glimpse of the wild garden that continued around the front of that grand estate. The scent of a wood fire, silver splashing behind his eyes, and they were standing together in another room, another study.

This one was also adorned with bookshelves, covering every available wall, with only a few narrow, frosted windows to allow light. They weren’t necessary, really, with the lanterns lit all around, hanging from the ceiling in what would be a firetrap in the real world. There was a large, oak desk, covered in open books, loose papers, and even unrolled scrolls. The floor was hardwood around the edges and a carpet in rich, red hues in the center, although it, too, hosted books and papers.

One of the books showed a picture that caught Lestrade’s eye; the outline of a man in profile with a shadow inside of him, clawing at the inside of his chest. Its head was turned to bite at the inside of his cheek. In the flickering light of the lanterns it seemed to move.

“I do apologise, I don’t often have guests,” Mycroft said hurriedly, and directed him to a chair that hadn’t been there a moment before, awkwardly placed in front of the desk and over a few of the sprawled books. Lestrade tried to look back at the picture but was distracted by Mycroft slamming a few books shut, piling up papers and scrolls, and generally fussing about.

“Now,” he said, and sat down at the desk, smiling at Lestrade with false brightness. “To business?”

“I thought we were going to cut this short so I could be rested for work tomorrow,” Lestrade said. The chair was surprisingly comfortable and he slouched into it, sliding down until his knees bumped into Mycroft’s desk.

Mycroft looked mildly perturbed by his lack of posture. “Yes, we will, but there are a few things we should discuss, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, like why your mum doesn’t have any idea about our contract?” Lestrade watched closely and was rewarded by the slightest, most guarded hint of wince in the history of human body language. “What’s this about your brother, and a coup? You didn’t call in our Debt to show up your baby brother.”

“Greg--Lestrade,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes briefly and looking like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, “we both of us have our reasons for being here, don’t we? I won’t ask you yours, and you will kindly refrain from asking me mine.”

Lestrade couldn’t control the stubborn jut of his jaw, even if he’d wanted to do so. “I’m here because--”

“Rumour had it that Elaine’s child was human, you know,” Mycroft interrupted, his voice sharp and expression dangerous. “If that is so, then a human signing a contract to meet Debt--why, that would be a Debt not met at all, don’t you agree?”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

“As I said, you have your reasons, and I mine.” Mycroft moved a few more papers and then their contract appeared, Lestrade’s signature gleaming redly in the lanterns’ light. “We can leave it at that. But Mummy will announce our engagement tomorrow--”

“That’s hardly enough time to invite a Family,” Lestrade interrupted.

Mycroft’s expression was cold. “Your patriarch never intended to come, nor to allow your Family to attend. Do keep up, Lestrade.”

He wanted to stand. He wanted to shout. But the shock of it--

“It’s not considered polite to mention Debt, so you will refrain. You won’t be required to do much, in any case. Stand around, smile.” Mycroft tapped his fingers on the desk, a nervous habit that didn’t entirely suit him. “Keep yourself to yourself, and this arrangement will work out nicely for both of us. I won’t interfere in your profession. I will make your excuses to my Family as often as propriety allows. It will work, Lestrade, and your Family will be better for it.” He paused. “That is, after all, why you agreed.”

“If you have my reasons, then I would like yours,” Lestrade said, and leaned forward. Mycroft’s eyes darkened. “Go on. You couldn’t let your brother get engaged before you? Had to call in a Debt without anyone’s knowledge to save your ego?”

Mycroft shrugged, the lines of his mouth sulky and sour. “It would sound more reasonable if you knew my brother.”

No. It was ridiculous. It was on the tip of Lestrade’s tongue to say so, but there was a challenge in Mycroft’s face. Did he say it? Did he fight when it was all set, when it would be this easy? Just stand around, smile, the man had said.

“You’d have made the same offer to Sophie,” he accused suddenly. He couldn’t help himself.

“Would you rather I did?” Mycroft asked quietly, putting his hand over the contract. He let his index finger drop, smeared the messy loop of an “e” at the end of Lestrade.

“Don’t fucking threaten me!” Lestrade snapped. Despite his anger, he flinched at the glare Mycroft shot him; apparently he did not appreciate strong language. “I just want to know where I stand.”

“To my right, and close so that I can intercept any questions,” Mycroft said smoothly, and pushed the paper aside. Lestrade huffed and sat back, rolling his eyes so hard it hurt. “The party won’t begin until nightfall. That should be plenty of time to dispense with your duties, I hope? If you have work again the following day, I will make our excuses so that we might leave early.”

“No, I’ve off,” Lestrade muttered without thinking, then winced. Mycroft’s mouth quirked in a little smile.

“I’ll collect you tomorrow evening and we’ll work from there,” he continued, and steepled his fingers. “I rather think we’ll make a fine team.”

Lestrade tried once more. “What’s this really about?” he asked, and leaned forward again, looking up at the stern face.

Something flickered deep in Mycroft’s eyes, but that was it. “Allow me to see you home, Lestrade.”

*********

“Sir?”

Lestrade looked up at Sally, registered her expression, and shook his head. “No.”

“Paperwork’s going to have to wait,” she said, and moved aside to let DS Bradstreet into the room. He nodded to her and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets; a bad habit he’d picked up from Lestrade.

“Got a Mister Doe today,” he said, and the day was well and truly started.

Lestrade was good at leading a team. He could cut off most fights before they began and get even the stroppiest individuals to pack it up and work together. And he might not be young, but he was fairly spry, and what he lacked in brilliance he made up for in sheer determination.

He knew his team respected him, and the other teams did, too, which is why he tended to get the more hopeless cases. For his sake, they’d keep on it longer than they would for Gregson or Hopkins.

He wanted it to feel more like a show of confidence than a punishment.

It didn’t help that his engagement was weighing on his mind. Mycroft didn’t strike him as someone who put himself in vulnerable positions, not for any reason, and if Lestrade were to declare himself--to choose, in fact, in front of the man’s Family--the embarrassment would be horrific. And, frankly, Mycroft didn’t seem the type to take to embarrassment either. Something strange was going on, and George wasn’t returning his calls about it.

It was more than likely Lestrade would have a catastrophe on his hands tonight, whatever Mycroft had said about ducking out early. And that would be followed by an early morning, trying to track down someone who might be able to identify their poor stiff.

Poor, well-off stiff, really. Sally was heading around to whatever posh shop was on the bloke’s label, and Bradstreet was keeping an ear out for calls. Missing persons didn’t often come with suits worth a month’s salary.

He left it in their capable hands and went back to the office to sign off on a few things, trying not to be seen watching the clock.

*********

He made it home before sunset, rumpled and jittery from too much coffee, with ink all over his hand from a busted pen. It should have been time enough for a quick shower and a bite to eat, but there was Mycroft, examining his stove with a dubious frown.

“You mind?”Lestrade said, and tossed his keys onto the table.

“I wanted to have tea waiting, but I became interested in considering why you would keep something so temperamental,” Mycroft said, and tried to force a knob. It clicked at him.

“I have better things to do than replace it,” Lestrade said, and bumped him away from the stove with his hip. Mycroft moved aside obligingly, and Lestrade pushed the knob all the way in, letting it out slowly as he turned it. The flame caught and he turned to Mycroft to bow.

“What prowess,” Mycroft said, and golf-clapped.

“Make yourself at home, not that you needed the invitation,” Lestrade said, and dumped his wallet and warrant card on the table, too, before heading for the shower.

He warred with himself briefly over whether he should hurry, to keep an eye on Mycroft, or take his time and try to decompress a bit before facing his newest, lasting problem. The latter won out, as it wasn’t likely Mycroft would do much damage to his flat. He hoped.

Following a quick shave and a careful survey of just how grey he’d gotten--not too bad, but he was definitely salt and pepper now--Lestrade shrugged into the jeans and jumper from the other night, not bothering with socks or shoes just yet. He slinked into the kitchen and raised his eyebrow at the spread: tea, yes, but in a service he’d never seen before, along with a few sandwiches and cakes.

“I don’t know how you make do,” Mycroft said. He was standing very straight and stiff, in a blue suit today, inspecting the handle of his umbrella. “There was a banana in your refrigerator. It was growing something blue.”

“I don’t eat at home much,” Lestrade said. They looked at each other for a long moment, taking in the depth of each other’s awkwardness, before the sheer weight of it collapsed into a kind of relaxation.

“Well.” Mycroft gave a tiny cough. “Tea?”

They sat down together, and Mycroft watched with interest as Lestrade went for the sandwiches. “How was your day?” he asked after a moment, as if following a script.

Lestrade took a sip of his tea--needed lemon, was there lemon? before answering with a brittle cheer. “Awful. Yours?”

“Similar.” Mycroft handed him a small saucer with slices of lemon, bright little tongs gleaming in the electric light. “It’s... it’s nice to unwind.” He sounded uncertain.

“Right. Thanks.” Lestrade tried his tea again. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“I’m having tea with my intended,” Mycroft said. He looked mildly affronted.

“You haven’t had any,” Lestrade pointed out. “And I thought this was a business transaction?”

“It needn’t be an unpleasant one,” Mycroft pointed out, and picked up his cup. There was something ridiculously dainty about it, how carefully he handled the cup and brought it to his lips.

The sun had dipped; evening stretched into the flat and Lestrade stood and stretched. “This going to be all right?” he asked, gesturing to his jumper.

Mycroft pursed his lips and put the cup down. “No, but that is but the work of a moment.” He stood and walked around the table, standing in front of Lestrade, looking at him critically. “I think--well.” He put his hands out and ran them along Lestrade’s shoulders, not quite touching him. The jumper and jeans blurred, then resolved themselves into a black tuxedo, white shirt, black tie.

Lestrade looked down at it with moue of distaste. “Do I have to?”

“It would be a crime not to,” Mycroft murmured, just a hint of colour in his cheeks. Lestrade blinked twice and then dropped his gaze again. “I only hope I won’t ruin the effect.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade said, and then Mycroft was suited up as well, standing with a more confident air than before. Lestrade swallowed with some difficulty and reached to adjust his bow tie.

Mycroft caught his hand. “No, it’s perfect. Leave it.”

Lestrade’s breath caught, and they stared at each for a moment. He was engaged to this man, Lestrade thought, feeling dizzy. He was going to marry him. Business transaction or whatever else, they would be married. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff; like he could feel the line of his future twinned, caught up forever with another.

“Are you quite all right?” Mycroft asked. His voice was very low and his free hand hovered, uncertain, near Lestrade’s face.

“This feels very sudden,” Lestrade said, and then burst into laughter, turning away to hide his face. Mycroft switched his grip on Lestrade’s hand so that their fingers were laced, easy and gentle, and waited for Lestrade’s tension to work itself out.

“Come,” Mycroft said gently as his fit wound down, and tugged his hand. Lestrade gave himself up to the flash of molten silver and the rich smell of smoke.

*********

They were in the study, standing in the bright moonlight pouring in through the glass doors. From behind the set of closed double-doors leading to the hall, Lestrade could hear voices, many voices, and the sound of a crowd shuffling about.

“How many people are out there?” Lestrade whispered harshly.

“Quite a few. Don’t worry,” Mycroft chided, “they’re mostly here for Sherlock and Victor.” He smoothed Lestrade’s lapels, looking solemn and distant.

“You will make excuses, and you will stay close,” Lestrade said, grabbing Mycroft’s hands and leaning close to him, “because I am very likely to run away.”

“It won’t be long,” Mycroft whispered, and put his arm around Lestrade’s waist, shifting him so that he was very nearly tucked under Mycroft’s arm, pressed all along his side. “Mummy knows we’re here, so let’s slip into the hall before she has to make a production of calling us out.”

He led the way to the doors, and pushed one open just enough to nudge Lestrade out with his hip and then follow. Lestrade stumbled, not only because of the nudge; they weren’t standing in the hall, but in a great, shining, impossible room, hung with chandeliers and filled with bright, whirling, impossible dancers. There was music, which he certainly had been hearing before, and wide doors leading out into the garden, spilling dancers and bright yellow light onto wild grass and flowers. He clutched Mycroft’s wrist, resting so casually against Lestrade’s hip.

“Mummy is a bit old-fashioned,” Mycroft said, resignation flavoring his even tone. He had tipped his head close to Lestrade’s to be heard. “We’ll keep to the shadows for now. Come.”

Lestrade allowed himself again to be led, as the music--crystalline, joyous, and somehow still desperately sad--drowned out his ability to think. The room seemed hazy, sparkling so much that it pained him to look around, though he couldn’t help it: the fantastic and decidedly inhuman dancers twisted, contorting themselves so gracefully that he could believe their limbs weren’t necessarily attached, lost and found again in swirls of material and light. It was bewitching, intoxicating, and terrible; Lestrade shut his eyes and turned his face toward Mycroft, breathing in the subtler scents of wood and ash, kinder to him than the heavy rose and lilac floating about the room.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft asked. His lips brushed Lestrade’s ear and he shivered, confused and overwhelmed.

“It’s too loud,” he managed to say, meaning all of it, from the music to the sights to the taste of roses in his throat. Christ. It was so heavy he could almost feel it coating his tongue.

“Well done,” Mycroft said. “No one’s going to approach us while you’re wearing an expression like that.”

That startled a laugh out of Lestrade as they settled behind a tall, curving pillar, leaning on the white, grey-flecked wall. Lestrade turned further into Mycroft’s half-embrace so that he could rest his cheek on the cool marble.

“No one else is wearing black,” he observed, and looked up at Mycroft, who was holding his chin high and smiling in a very polite, but somehow off-putting fashion.

“It isn’t done,” Mycroft said, and the smile deepened, becoming sharper and colder. “I am not one to rebel purposelessly against traditions; they’ll wonder, and be hesitant to approach.” His eyes flicked down Lestrade’s body. “But, eventually, they will, and if they’re off their game, so much the better.”

Someone was approaching; Moira, one eyebrow arched delicately high, wafting silks and tulle in various shades of nightfall, glided around the pillar and favoured them with a small smile. “My darling boy, you are the talk of the party.”

“Oh?” Mycroft said noncommittally.

“Lestrade, you’re spoiling him terribly,” she warned, then smiled again at her son before gliding off.

“She doesn’t walk, does she?” Lestrade said to Mycroft, keeping his voice low.

“She doesn’t always have legs,” Mycroft whispered back, and cracked a real smile at Lestrade’s wordless stare. “I’m sorry; the Wintered Family is very human, isn’t it?” He looked out over the dance floor again, the smile hardening. “Mine isn’t so.”

“You are,” Lestrade said, and jumped when Mycroft’s arm tightened around his waist and his stormy eyes widened. “Hey, what?”

“Why would you say that?” he asked. Before Lestrade could answer, the music swelled, and voices rose in greeting to a seemingly young man, smiling somewhat nervously at the attention, beautiful in swaths of red and orange. He raised a hand before flashing a brighter smile and nodding to Mycroft, whose own smile was again polite and cold.

“Victor Trevor, of the Stricken Family,” he murmured to Lestrade. “My brother’s fiance.”

“Stricken?” Lestrade repeated, and watched as the different guests welcomed Victor, petting at his sleeves and sliding their hands over his back in a way that would have had Lestrade screaming for help. Someone’s long-fingered hand even stroked through his hair, bone-white in contrast to the short, blue-black strands.

Mycroft’s grip was still very tight. “Are you grateful for my foresight now?”

“I’ll be grateful when you get me out of here,” Lestrade snapped back through clenched teeth. Mycroft carefully directed them around the edges of the crowd, the imperious smile back in place. Lestrade put his arm around Mycroft’s waist, leaning into him to keep from getting dazzled again.

More and more people were looking at Mycroft and Lestrade now, and if anyone approached Lestrade might just try to hide inside Mycroft’s jacket. He kept his gaze focused firmly ahead, to where Moira stood now with Victor, towering over him.

“Mycroft,” she said, turning to him with some relief, “find your brother for me, won’t you? I’ve a few words for him before the announcements.”

“He’s probably back to his research,” Victor offered, and grinned. “Not that you really needed me to tell you, right? Hello,” he added, turning to Lestrade.

Mycroft’s grip tightened to the point that his hip bone dug into Lestrade’s side. “This is Lestrade, my intended.”

“Your--” Victor broke off, a disbelieving grin growing on his face as he searched Mycroft’s expression. “You’re not joking.”

“I don’t, as a rule,” Mycroft said. Lestrade tried to pull away from him just a bit, to prevent bruising, and failed. He felt half like some rare, precious treasure, half like a security blanket.

Victor winked at Lestrade. “Again, hello. I’m Victor Trevor of the Stricken Family, but soon to belong to the Deepened, if Sherlock ever deigns to show up. Well-met, I hope?”

“Well-met,” Lestrade answered carefully, feeling the tension in Mycroft’s frame. “I’m Lestrade, as Mycroft’s told you, of the Wintered Family--”

The murmur that rose at this made him jump. The nearest guests spun about to share the news with their friends in a whirl as graceful as any dance, hands up to mouths or reaching for attention, every eye still trained on Mycroft and Lestrade.

“Now that you’ve had your fun, find your brother that you may fully enjoy it,” Moira said, fixing Mycroft with a mock glare. Mycroft bowed his head in assent and didn’t lift it again. Lestrade tried not to fidget under so many interested stares.

“How long has this been in motion?” Victor asked, politely enough, but Mycroft still raised his head to glare, and Lestrade recoiled.

His eyes were silver--no, not exactly silver, but some reflective silver metal, or glass, or--

Mycroft blinked twice, the spinning, silvery cast fading away but for a point in each pupil. “I don’t see him, Mummy. Where might he be?”

Moira’s eyes changed now, filling with the deep, midnight blue of a night sky, velvety and soft. Their talent, Lestrade realised, his instinctive flight response easing. They were seers, George had said.

A delicate frown creased her features. “Well. This is unsettling.”

“Is he--” Victor cut himself off, chewing on his lower lip and starting to fidget with his sleeves.

“London,” Moira said, and her eyes cleared, only to narrow suspiciously at Mycroft, and at his hand on Lestrade’s hip.

Lestrade wasn’t sure what to make of that, but Mycroft was his ally here, if only because he needed Lestrade. So he turned into Mycroft’s embrace, tucked himself closer along his side, and quietly asked, “Everything all right?” Then he put his hand on top of Mycroft’s, for good measure.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, but there was the very faintest tremor in his voice. “Mummy, we’ll retire to the study.”

“Lestrade should stay and enjoy his party, darling,” Moira said. Like hell, Lestrade thought, but very carefully did not say.

“I’d prefer to have him with me,” Mycroft said, and then blushed bright red. Victor and Moira raised their eyebrows in unison, looking at Lestrade.

“Very well,” said Moira, the faint accusation in her eyes fading completely. “Be quick, though. There’s fashionably late, and then there’s rude.”

“And then there’s Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered, and pulled Lestrade away.

*********

There was a warmer, yellow light in the study now, as Mycroft sat in one of the plush sofas, drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He rested his head on the high back, the strange silvery shine coming over his eyes again.

Lestrade fidgeted with his jacket before abandoning it, and the bow tie, on the back of a chair close enough that he could watch Mycroft and try to decide just what colour his eyes were. “You’re searching for your brother?”

“Mhm. He’s in London, somewhere.” Mycroft shifted so that he was sitting sideways on the couch, his cheek resting on the back. His open eyes were still wildly silver.

“So, what exactly is, um,” Lestrade hesitated. They were reflecting something, or many things, very quickly and with a silvery sheen, which is why they seemed silver.

Mycroft smiled, a strange expression without the help of his eyes. “I can look out of reflective surfaces.”

“Mirrors?” That was exactly what it was, Lestrade realised with relief. A wildly shifting, shining, sparkling hall of mirrors covered his eyes.

“Not just; anything that shows a reflection can work. Even a distorted one.” Mycroft sighed. “But there are many, many such surfaces in London. Shop windows, puddles in the street, the screens of those silly little phones and laptaps.”

“Tops,” Lestrade corrected, trying not to grin.

“Indeed. Quite a few of them.” He shifted again, but only to cuddle closer into the sofa cushions. “And I’m stuck searching all of them for a glimpse of my brother.”

Lestrade shifted, too, to settle more comfortably into his chair. “Would you mind--I mean, would it be all right if you told me--”

“Possibilities,” Mycroft said, his voice soft and absent. “She can see all the possible outcomes of a set of variables, and how likely each outcome is. Very useful in decision-making, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“I... suppose,” Lestrade said carefully.

Mycroft smiled again. “Hardly magical, though, you’re thinking.”

“Very loudly, apparently,” Lestrade said, smirking at the window. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of silver in it, and his smirk became a smile against his better judgment.

“Ah, but of all the places in your world and outside it, she was able to place Sherlock in London.” Mycroft shrugged. “And that in only a matter of seconds. I’ve studied her approach for three hundred years, and can manage perhaps seventy percent of possible outcomes in any given situation, on a good day. It gets very messy, very quickly.”

Lestrade pulled his bow tie down and started tying knots in it. “So what do you think is the most likely reason for your brother’s absence?”

There was a long moment of silence. Lestrade looked back at Mycroft, whose eyes were blue now, and filled with some immeasurable weight of emotion, of concern, sorrow, and resignation.

“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice soft as a breath. “But it’s wise to consider the worst, with Sherlock.”

“You knew he wouldn’t be here,” Lestrade said, the certainty of it making his hair stand on end. “You knew something had happened to him.” Mycroft didn’t answer, didn’t even look up, so Lestrade continued. “How long have you been looking for him?”

“Seven days, by your measure,” Mycroft whispered. He closed his eyes briefly. “I worried... but Mummy knows he’s in London, so. That’s something.”

“I know London,” Lestrade said, sitting up straighter. “I can help.”

The look Mycroft gave him was soft, for all the amused condescension in it. “You’ve your own things to worry about, I’m sure. It’s enough--” He drew in a sharp breath, cutting himself off.

Lestrade waited, but Mycroft stood, straightening out his tuxedo and frowning gently at the mess Lestrade had made of his. “We should inform Mummy. Perhaps she’ll be able to salvage the night; perhaps not. But we ought to give her the chance, don’t you think?”

*********

Moira was very calm, for a Fae with a ballroom full of guests waiting for an engagement announcement that would not be happening. “You are to find him,” she said to Mycroft. “For all I know, he’s learned of your little stunt and is off sulking.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “Wait, how--” Mycroft’s hand on his wrist, tightening to the point of pain, shut him up.

“Yes,” Mycroft said in a similarly placid tone. “I apologise, Victor, for the embarrassment I’ve caused.”

“Oh. I--” Victor shot Lestrade a somewhat helpless look. “I’m sure it’s not your fault; Sherlock’s a bit, well--”

“I live in London, you know,” Lestrade said, despite Mycroft’s attempt to crush his wrist. “I can have a look around.”

Moira’s face was impassive. “You’re very sweet, but looking after Sherlock is Mycroft’s duty, is it not?” The last was directed with particular sharpness to Mycroft, whose face was similarly without expression, but there was a painful, ugly flush of colour at his cheeks.

“Yes, Mummy,” he said. Lestrade’s fingers were beginning to tingle from his strangle-hold.

“Once around the floor, and then you are dismissed,” she said. “Victor, allow me to apologise most profusely for my sons.”

“No, it’s--” Victor laughed nervously, rubbing at his throat. Mycroft led Lestrade away at a furiously controlled pace before the conversation could continue.

“What was that about?” Lestrade hissed, trying to keep up. “Didn’t you--no, obviously you didn’t tell her, but--”

Mycroft stopped dead at the edge of the dance floor, as marked by the guests who were still moving, but mostly to share gossip and watch them with bright, interested eyes. He turned around, facing Lestrade, and tilted his head politely. “Would you prefer to lead?”

“I don’t dance,” Lestrade said automatically. He tried to turn his wrist, to free it from Mycroft’s grip, but there was no give.

“Then, if you’ll allow me,” Mycroft said courteously, moving closer, and Lestrade stepped back, skin prickling with panic and embarrassment.

“No, really; I don’t dance,” he insisted. Mycroft sighed loudly and pulled Lestrade closer by his captured wrist, sliding forward to meet him with a grace that shouldn’t have surprised Lestrade, but nevertheless did.

“Put your hand on my shoulder and stay close to me,” Mycroft murmured into his ear, and Lestrade peeked up and sideways at his expression of strained patience. “Mummy would like us to distract the guests while she finds a way to placate the Stricken Family. Normally, you see--” He slid his free arm around Lestrade’s waist. “--an individual who doesn’t appear for his engagement announcement is breaking the engagement, in the most gauche way possible.”

Lestrade swallowed, put his hand up on Mycroft’s shoulder, and allowed Mycroft to switch his first grip from wrist to a gentle holding of hands. “You don’t think this is a normal case?”

“Which would mean,” Mycroft continued unabated, pulling Lestrade out onto the floor, “that the Family of the individual in question is responsible for his behavior, and for alleviating the embarrassment.” Lestrade wanted to watch his feet, to make sure he wasn’t about to step on either Mycroft or himself, but the subtle play of emotion on Mycroft’s face held him entranced. It was the level of tension in his jaw that was the most revealing, he realised.

“You should know something about this, considering,” Mycroft said, and carefully whirled them into the mass of dancers. They’d all found a lot more enthusiasm for it now that Lestrade and Mycroft were in the mix, passing by closer than Lestrade was comfortable with seeing. Or feeling, in the case of the person with the feathers.

“What do you mean?” he asked. They were speaking very nearly directly into each other’s ears in order to be heard over the music, full of sweet violins and high, strange chimes. “Considering what?”

“Considering that this situation is how a Family falls into Marriage Debt,” Mycroft said, and whirled them around twice so that Lestrade could do no more than gasp.

“Then--you--” he managed, closing his eyes for another abrupt twirl.

“Later, please?” Mycroft asked, his cheek pressed to Lestrade’s. “Once around the floor, and we are free to leave.”

“So that everyone can see you’ve somehow triumphed over your brother, and driven him to seclusion,” Lestrade said, frowning darkly. “Which your mother half believes. If you told her--”

“It’s a fine solution, and one for which I’ve successfully angled,” Mycroft whispered tartly, “so please don’t spoil my party.” He whirled Lestrade around again, with a vengeance.

Mycroft had started them at the far end of the cavernous room, where Moira and Victor had been waiting, and now moved them back to the study doors in a seamless, effortlessly casual sweep. Lestrade allowed the questions to stack up in his throat unasked, and relaxed into Mycroft’s embrace. It was easier when he didn’t think about it.

He had a feeling that a lot of things would be, with Mycroft. That may have been why he deliberately stepped on Mycroft’s toes as their dance wound down.

*********

The door opened up to Mycroft’s study this time around, with its high, ordered shelves and impassably messy floor. Lestrade allowed himself to be led to the chair at the desk and waited for Mycroft to sit before he asked, “Is this all your brother’s stuff?”

Mycroft stared. His jaw was very tight. “Why do you ask?”

Lestrade grinned, settling back in the chair. “Your stuff’s all neat. A place for everything and everything in its place.” He waved languidly at the walls. “And it’s not as if you’d have to knock out a wall to get more space in here. Just a thought for your kind, isn’t it?” He pointed at Mycroft. “But you like your study how it is. It fits you. So you leave your brother’s stuff strewn about, without a place for it, because you don’t intend for it to stay here.”

“Bravo,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes were hooded. “You are surely one of New Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“You were impressed before I explained it,” Lestrade accused.

Mycroft sighed, and put his hands to his temples. “Thank you very much for your concern, Lestrade, but it is my duty to find my brother, and as well as you know London, you lack the ability to find a Fae who doesn’t want to be found.”

“So you think he doesn’t want to be found,” Lestrade mused. “You think your brother went off and left you to clean up after him, marry his fiance and placate your mum--”

“That is not what I think!” Mycroft’s voice rang in the small room, and the lanterns grew bright. Lestrade held Mycroft’s gaze, patient as a rock, and it was Mycroft who looked away first, an angry sort of helplessness reflected in the set of his jaw. “Why are you doing this?”

Lestrade’s voice was gentle. “Doing what?”

“We met yesterday, and only because I forced you into an engagement. You should be livid. You’ve every right!” Mycroft sat back and stared at the ceiling. “I was ready for it. You should be anxious to get home, to get away--” He cut himself off.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. “I’m a copper, you know.”

“And arranged marriages are a hazard of the job?” Mycroft sneered. There was no heart in it.

“Desperation is,” Lestrade said, and spread his hands when Mycroft looked at him. “Desperate people do desperate things. It’s my job to help. It’s more than my job; it’s my life. And I’m not going to dwell on this damned engagement. I’m stuck with you. And you’re stuck with me, so I’ll leave it to you to decide who got the raw end of that deal.” Mycroft’s face was blank, but his jaw was easing. Lestrade continued carefully. “Why don’t you try trusting me? Just a little.”

“I’m afraid that my brother is dead, or dying,” Mycroft said. His voice was very nearly emotionless but for the tremor at the last word. “I fear that his research has at last caught up to him, and that if I do find him alive again, he will be unrecognisable.” He looked down at his desk, at his hands resting on top of it.

“What was he researching?” Lestrade asked, his voice hushed.

Mycroft’s smile was dry and mirthless. “Death.”

*********


	2. Chapter 2

*********

“Neville St. Clair,” Bradstreet announced, walking into Lestrade’s office without knocking. “Oh. Wow. Did you get the number of the lorry?”

“Late night,” Lestrade growled, putting his hand up to his face. “What’s that, then?”

“Our victim, Neville St. Clair,” Bradstreet repeated, and dumped a file on Lestrade’s desk. “Sal’s got a kid in to interview. Looks like a junkie.”

“Do we think the kid did it?” Lestrade asked, looking over what little information they had: Neville St. Clair, thirty-two years of age, male, white, perfectly healthy but for the sixteen stab wounds to the chest. No living relatives but more money than anyone would need, presumably inherited from deceased family as no job was listed. Noted for giving quite a bit to the arts, though, especially theatre.

“Doubt it.” Bradstreet stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, made a face. “The kid was snooping around his place, looking for him, I imagine. Probably his dealer back in the day.”

“How old is this kid?” Lestrade asked.

“Won’t say. Looks to be in his mid-twenties, but it’s hard to tell.” Bradstreet grinned at him. “Public school kids all look the same to me.”

“What? No.” Lestrade bit down viciously on his pen. “And you left Sally with him? How much trouble are you trying to get me in?”

Bradstreet shrugged, stepping aside as Lestrade got up. “We reckon if you won’t take a holiday, you’ll have to make to do with a suspension.”

“If you want my job, just say so,” Lestrade called back over his shoulder, and had to grin at Bradstreet’s uproarious laugh. He was going to hate losing him, but promotion was beckoning. Hopefully it would hold off until Sally was ready to step up.

Sally met him in the hall. “He’s a right prick, sir,” she warned, “and sick, too. You might want to get a biohazard suit. I’m just off to get a box of tissues for his highness.”

“Got a name yet?” Lestrade asked as she stomped by.

“Freak!” she called back.

Lestrade peered into the room and saw the kid rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Apparently having an interest makes one a freak. Good to know,” he said, and then coughed. It was a thick, wet sound.

Lestrade flinched. “That sounds awful.” Under the kid’s unnaturally bright gaze, he eased into the room and sat down opposite him at the small table. “How long have you been coughing like that?”

“Please. This is the Yard, not the surgery.” He was in his twenties, Lestrade judged, maybe closer to thirties, but surely not there yet. His face just wasn’t rugged enough, and his eyes not resigned enough. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Who said anything about killing?” Lestrade asked, leaning forward on the table. The kid was back to staring at the ceiling. He was too pale, especially against the black of his coat and the black of his hair, left in longish, untidy curls. They should probably get a doctor in; Lestrade wasn’t entirely sure he’d make it through the interview.

“You’re all thinking it. It’s so loud I can hear it,” the kid accused. “You’re all in Murders, aren’t you? That’s not difficult to figure out. And he was stabbed. Wonderful. I don’t suppose you’d let me see the scene?”

“Are you daft?” Lestrade asked before he could help himself. “Are you trying to incriminate yourself?”

“How?” the kid demanded, sitting up straight. The movement caused him to cough again, hunching up and putting his arm over his mouth. “How would I be incriminating myself?”

“No one told you he was stabbed,” Lestrade said. He was dead certain no one had. It was unthinkable.

“Your constable spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out if I am right- or left-handed, and to gauge my height--difficult when I’m slouched like this, I know.” The kid wiped his mouth delicately with a hand and glared hard at Lestrade. “She wanted to see if I could have made some sort of physical attack. Not a gun; height wouldn’t matter. Not a punch; she wasn’t interested in the state of my hands. Not a bat or other swung instrument; she was concerned with which hand was used. Conclusion: a knife. Stabbing.”

“Still puts you on very thin ice, kid,” Lestrade said, mind whirling a bit. It made sense, explained, but people didn’t think like that. Not so quickly, anyway; not without a great deal of training and practice. “Look, who are you? What’s your name?”

The kid smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes. “Hugh Boone.”

“Really.” Lestrade took out his notebook and wrote it down, because even the lies people told were important. “Well, Mr. Boone--”

The kid started coughing again, and this time Lestrade saw what he was coughing up: a thick, black liquid--no, not black. It was a very dark purple, so dark that it seemed black, but there was just enough light to see that it wasn’t. And it was flecked with some twists, some filaments of silver, bright as stars in the night.

“Fuck,” Lestrade breathed, and immediately it was mucous, phlegmy and yellow, but Lestrade knew what he had seen. He looked up into the kid’s icy glare and said, “You’re Fae.”

The kid’s eyes got wider, and he sat back, tapping his fingers together.

“Mr. St. Clair is Fae?” Lestrade squinted at him. “No. He was in autopsy. He’s human. Why are you looking for him?”

“Were,” the kid corrected, lips curling into a sneer. “Or, rather, was.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Whatever. Why is a Fae--” Oh. Oh Christ. He shut his eyes. “He chose?”

“You’re clever enough if time isn’t a factor,” the kid mused. He looked at his hands and grimaced, then wiped the blood on his coat--and it was blood, purple and silver, and being coughed out. That couldn’t be good.

“What’s happened to you, then?” Lestrade asked, nodding at the wet patch on the coat. “Didn’t think your kind could get hurt. Not for long, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose mental adjustments must take some time for you.” He sat back and fussed with the coat, muffling another cough.

“Why were you looking for him, Mr. Boone?” Lestrade asked wearily. “What was his Family, and for that matter, what’s yours?”

“It doesn’t matter. He can’t help me now--although you could, if you’d let me see the scene,” the kid said again, and gestured at his chest. “I haven’t got a lot of time, so if you wouldn’t mind--”

“Isn’t there anyone you could ask for help? Fae, I mean,” Lestrade amended. “I know a bloke from the Deepened Family; I’m sure--”

“Shut up,” the kid interrupted. His expression was baleful. “They can’t help me, all right? Your St. Clair could have, possibly, if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself murdered. He might still be able to, if you let me see the scene and figure out who killed him.”

“You can do that,” Lestrade said doubtfully.

The kid’s eyes flared with anger. “Of course I can.”

*********

He got Hugh, as he insisted on being called, out of the Yard to head down to the alley where they’d found St. Clair. Hugh had outright refused to use the car, but had agreed to a taxi after Lestrade had asked him if he planned to travel instead. He wasn’t up to using his abilities much, Lestrade could see, and gnawed on his lip.

“The Deepened Family doesn’t have much to do with humans,” Hugh said, almost conversationally, once they were in the cab. “How do you know this ‘bloke’?”

Well, it had been announced, hadn’t it? “Engaged.”

Hugh stared at him. “To whom? What line?”

Lestrade tried to back away from him. The intensity of his stare was really off-putting. “Does it matter?” He had a sudden idea. “Is that your Family?”

“Meandered,” Hugh snapped. “The Whitehall line. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Lestrade said dryly. “The Holmes line.”

Hugh’s mouth tightened. “The elder, then. The younger has been seen going around with a member of the Stricken Family. When and how did this happen?”

“How do you mean?” Lestrade asked. It was like being under a laser. He turned and looked out the window, but he could still feel the kid’s stare.

“There’s always gossip when members of a Family go courting.” Hugh sneered as he used the term. “All the gossip about Mycroft Holmes is that he’s far too physically lazy and intellectually superior to find anyone to suit.”

Intellectually superior, Lestrade could see, and it was rather a case of pot calling kettle. But physically lazy? Surely not; not after the dancing. “Gossip is a terrible barometer of truth.”

“It’s far better than people believe,” Hugh fired back. “Who’s your Family? How did you get mixed up with that sluggard?”

“Am I really hearing you insult my fiance?” Lestrade demanded, finally turning to face the kid. It was at that moment the cab stopped, and Hugh was out the door and whirling about impatiently while Lestrade struggled to get at his wallet.

The alley was still cordoned off, and a Constable at the end squinted hard at Hugh while Lestrade bullied their way in. “It’s my scene,” he told her, pulling the tape up and nodding for Hugh to scramble under. “Thanks so much for your cooperation.”

“What a lot of respect they have for you,” Hugh observed quietly, and almost got a kick.

Back in the alley there was still evidence of the crime, though what could be cleaned up had been and photos were just about done, he’d heard. “They’ll be opening this up again tomorrow,” Lestrade told Hugh quietly.

“Dragged back here, fighting,” Hugh muttered, his coat swirling around him as he darted about. “Two individuals, fairly large. Paid well, I assume, for their pains. I knew he wouldn’t have done it himself. Too risky. Turn your back.”

“I’m sorry?” Lestrade said, eyebrows going up.

Hugh glared at him, half-hunched in the alley. “Turn your back, Inspector. This is going to be difficult enough without you in it as well.”

“Look here, kid,” Lestrade said, and was interrupted by Hugh starting to cough, thick and terrible, nearly falling. Lestrade started forward and halted when Hugh held his hand up, still coughing, but sputtering through it.

“Don’t--get out of the space! I can’t--” It was interrupted by more coughing, and more violent gesticulations. Lestrade did, finally, go back to the mouth of the alley and look out, the sounds of coughing fainter, swallowed up by the noise of the street.

A few minutes later, Hugh staggered out. Lestrade caught him by the collar before he could sway drunkenly up to the tape. “You with me, kid?” he asked, aware of the Constable turning to stare at them again.

“Two steps behind,” Hugh spat, and then actually spat, thick, purple-black blood splatting on the ground. “Called him out, sure enough. Dust all over the alley; you saw that?”

“It’s an alley,” Lestrade said, ushering the kid under the tape and nodding to the Constable. “Let’s find a cab, shall we?”

“Yes, fine. That dust is human ash.”

“What?” Lestrade whipped his head around, meeting Hugh’s amused, superior stare.

“There are no murderers for you to find, I’m afraid,” he said rather airily, and stretched himself to his full, rather impressive height. “Taxi!”

“No, how did you--obviously you used your gift, fine,” Lestrade said hastily, trying to hold onto the kid’s arm. “I won’t ask. But explain. The murderers, two blokes, burnt to ash in the alley?”

Hugh sighed with strained patience. “Lunch, I think. I’ll tell you what I can. But--” He fixed Lestrade with fierce, pale eyes. “You’ll answer my questions, too. Agreed?”

*********

They went to little sandwich shop near Lestrade’s flat, where Hugh insisted on smoking like a bloody chimney and wouldn’t eat a thing. “I don’t eat when I’m thinking,” he said, waving the cigarette at Lestrade. “Takes too much energy.”

It suddenly seemed like minutes, not ten months and six days, since Lestrade had last a cigarette. “Put that damn thing out and talk, will you?”

“Me?” Hugh said, and blinked in exaggerated surprise. “You have my Family and line. Now what are yours?”

Lestrade chewed on a chip, staring back at him. It was childish to want to lie just because Hugh wanted the truth. Of course, he wasn’t giving the truth; not really. Boone was an admitted lie, if the kid was even Hugh--or, hell, Whitehall. Or Meandered.

“It’s a small line, Lestrade,” Hugh mused, sucking on his cigarette thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard of it. From a local Family; you’re obviously very local.” The stress on the word ‘very’ made Lestrade’s teeth itch. “Not much ability to speak of; can’t imagine why Mycroft...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. Smoke curled slowly out of his mouth.

“In your own time,” Lestrade said, and snagged a cigarette. “Thanks.”

“Wintered,” Hugh gritted out through clenched teeth. “That snake.”

“Oi!” Lestrade snapped, and grabbed the lighter, too. “Watch it, kid.”

“But he couldn’t have--” Hugh slammed the cigarette down, grinding it out on the table. “How long have you known your fiance?”

“Ten years, give or take,” Lestrade lied easily. They weren’t human cigarettes; nothing people made tasted this smooth. Hugh’s face twisted up further, but would he call out the lie when he was lying through his teeth himself? “St. Clair’s Family.”

“Stricken. How did you meet him?”

Lestrade kept the grin locked firmly inside. “Internet dating site.”

“Lestrade!” Hugh’s voice rang through the tiny shop, and heads started to turn. Lestrade quickly stubbed out the cigarette and waved the smoke away, glaring all the while.

“When you find yourself capable of meeting me halfway, I’ll do my best to accommodate your questions, ‘Hugh’,” he said in a low voice, “but I’ve no taste for gossip. I’ve got a murder on my hands, here.”

“You should be very careful,” Hugh replied. His eyes were lowered. “You’re getting into more trouble than you’re expecting.”

“Two men burnt to ash in an alley,” Lestrade reminded him. “Who did it, and why? You think it’s something to do with St. Clair having been Fae--”

“Having been Stricken,” Hugh corrected. He relaxed back into his seat and took up his cigarette again, turning it this way and that before it lit itself. Lestrade fumbled with the lighter to get his own burning again. “Fire’s their gift. Well, heat.”

“So a member of the Stricken Family murdered the two men who murdered his human cousin?”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Hugh smiled to himself, eyes hazy. “Contained. No one visits human family who have chosen, unless they’re thinking of choosing, so no one admits to it. Going to meet a cousin, finding him in trouble, murdering the ones who murdered him... Fits with Fae law, and that’s the only law that’ll touch him.”

“You know who killed the two, then.” Lestrade sighed as Hugh shrugged, indicating that yes, he knew, and no, he didn’t deem it necessary to explain to Lestrade. “Christ. I’ll go around you, then, and ask Victor.”

“You can’t possibly know him,” Hugh scoffed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt.

“Here I thought you were clever. I met him at the engagement party, the announcement,” Lestrade said with distaste, waving the cigarette. “Lovely do.”

There was a strange expression on the kid’s face: mostly irritation, a pinch of resentment, and something odd about the edges. Lestrade wanted to call it sorrow. “Official, then, is it? Done and dusted?”

“You don’t think that St. Clair was the victim of a robbery gone wrong,” Lestrade said. “You think this Family member had something to do with it. Wanted him dead, but didn’t want it known.” Hugh lifted his eyebrows and looked pleased as Lestrade continued. “Killed the murderers to clean up after himself, but why wouldn’t he get rid of St. Clair’s body the same way?”

Hugh stood up abruptly, stubbing out his cigarette again. “Keep thinking. You might get there in a year or so.”

“You’re leaving?” Lestrade scrambled to get up. “Where are you going?”

Hugh looked around. “I’ll make you deal. Don’t mention me to any Fae, not a one of them, and I’ll answer your questions.”

“When?” Lestrade demanded. Hugh pursed his lips and carefully reached over to pluck the lighter from Lestrade’s hand. “Give me a way to reach you.”

“No,” Hugh said flatly, and turned away to cough into his arm. “I’ll contact you.”

“But--”

He was gone. The sharp scent of pine and burning tobacco hung in the air. Lestrade closed his eyes.

*********

Mycroft was in his kitchen again, sitting with perfect posture and poise. “Good evening,” he said politely as Lestrade walked in, and it was a testament to the sheer strength of his personality that Lestrade understood how irritated he was.

He emptied his pockets onto a small table in the hall and took off his jacket, watching Mycroft carefully. “Evening,” he replied, and edged toward the refrigerator. “How was your day?”

“Tedious,” Mycroft said, and smiled thinly. “And that was before I found myself waiting for you.”

“It’s--” Lestrade checked the clock. “Just after six.” There was nothing in his refrigerator, except for the odd condiment and some suspicious leftover takeaway.

“You said you were off today.”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, his face freezing into an expression of incredulity. “I, uh. I had a case.”

“A case,” Mycroft repeated. It reverberated, very much like the cocking of a gun. Lestrade carefully closed the refrigerator door and turned around, realising that it hadn’t been irritation Mycroft was projecting. Mycroft was actually masking his rage, and irritation was leaking around the edges.

“A man was murdered yesterday, and it is my job to find out who did it,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You said you weren’t looking to interfere in my professional life.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed minutely. “You said you were off today. I expected to find you here.”

“Forgive me for not calling,” Lestrade said with a brittle smile. “Oh, wait, it’s not as if you have a phone. Or any way for me to contact you.”

“You had a case,” Mycroft said again, something ugly colouring his tone. Lestrade’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. It was challenge, and disbelief. Mycroft thought he was lying.

“What are you really asking here?” he burst out. Mycroft stood when Lestrade took a step forward, drawing himself up. “You think I’m lying? What would I be doing out all day if I wasn’t working? What are you asking?”

“Your case,” Mycroft snapped, taking his own step closer. They were in each other’s personal space now, close enough that Lestrade could see the icy flecks of silver in Mycroft’s sea-blue eyes.

“Neville St. Clair, stabbed sixteen times in an alley,” he said quietly, and saw something shift deep in Mycroft’s gaze. “Wallet and ID gone, so we didn’t identify him until this morning. Found an acquaintance to interview; didn’t learn much.” It was true enough, he supposed, and dropped his gaze to stare at Mycroft’s tie. “I shouldn’t even be telling you.”

“Why not?” Mycroft’s voice was very quiet and, when Lestrade looked back up at him, he saw the anger was gone. But there was still a struggle taking place, evident in the tight set of his jaw.

“Well, you’re not an officer,” Lestrade said, and shifted back a step. “I’m not supposed to be discussing this with just random people.”

“I’m your intended,” Mycroft said, and seemed to reach a decision. “The St. Clairs are a line of the Stricken Family.”

Warmth swept through Lestrade at this information, freely given. A smile was even quirking at the edge of his mouth when Mycroft narrowed his gaze on him again and stepped closer, searching Lestrade’s expression and sniffing--Christ, sniffing at him!

“What are you doing?” Lestrade demanded, trying to draw back, but he hit the refrigerator and cursed his kitchen for being so damn small.

“You knew it already,” Mycroft accused, his eyes now searching the rest of Lestrade for details, for clues. Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest again, feeling absurdly exposed. “Who told you? Who was with you?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I can’t--”

“You can’t what?” Mycroft’s voice was loud, and Lestrade flinched before his ears told him something incredible: Mycroft sounded frightened. Under all of that, he sounded scared.

“There’s a witness--no, not a witness, but someone who knows the man--” Lestrade paused, biting his lip. Mycroft was still as stone, watching him without so much as taking a breath. “The, uh, the individual won’t speak with me, unless I keep h--the identity secret. And that’s it,” he said, to Mycroft’s silent, accusatory stare. “A man’s been murdered, and Stricken or no he was a man. A human. And it’s my job to find his murderer.”

“Your informant,” Mycroft said, his voice just above a whisper, “You have to tell me--”

“I can’t,” Lestrade flared. “I promised!”

At that, Mycroft shut his eyes and turned away. Lestrade took a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed his arms.

“You keep your promises, don’t you,” Mycroft said finally. His jaw relaxed slightly. “Just... would you tell me...”

“I can’t tell you who he--” Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. “Who the person is.”

“I understand that.” Mycroft managed a small smile. “Just tell me that it isn’t Victor.”

Lestrade blinked twice, tilting his head. “Victor? Victor Trevor?”

Mycroft’s smile became more honest, and he turned back to the table. “Tea?”

“Wait, what just happened here?” Lestrade stumbled after Mycroft, who was looking down at the table now, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “Mycroft?”

“Hush,” Mycroft chided lightly. “I need to concentrate.” There was a gentle glow over the kitchen table and, as Lestrade watched, it began slowly to resolve into a tea much like the one from yesterday, although the service was black this time, with a gold pattern.

That much Lestrade remembered as well. With concentration, with effort, Fae could imbue those things they created with actual substance. All Fae could create food they could eat, that could sustain them, but pulling together enough energy for food that would nourish a human required great strength of will.

So for a full five minutes, Lestrade watched Mycroft spin tea, sandwiches, and scones from raw elements, just for him.

*********

“Mummy wants to have a proper announcement,” Mycroft said. Without Lestrade having to ask, he passed the small dish of lemon. “Do you have a preference for which evening?”

“We have to do it again?” Lestrade put his cup down. “Christ. Friday?”

“So long?” Mycroft’s tone was mild, but Lestrade was hyper-alert to anything that might set him off again.

“Saturday’s an official day off, and hopefully this case will be finished,” he said, and dunked his scone into his cup just to watch Mycroft flinch. “But I got enough comments today, turning up looking like I hadn’t slept for a week.”

“Really.” Mycroft’s gaze flicked up and down what was visible of Lestrade.

“Though you could help, unofficially,” Lestrade said, relaxing back into the chair. “Tell me something about the Stricken Family. Hell, tell me something about all the Families; you know how little I know.”

“Through no fault of your own,” Mycroft said, and it should have sounded condescending, but it didn’t. He toyed with his own cup, turning it carefully in his hands. “There are twelve Families left native to the British Isles. Wintered, Deepened, and Stricken, you know; Measured and Hidden in the north; Lasting, Restive, Sorrowed, and Crafted in the south. West a ways you’ll find Graced. Wandered and Lost, well, I think you can guess that they might be found anywhere.”

“Measured?” Lestrade repeated. “That was the M one?”

“Yes; you’ve heard of it?” Mycroft lifted one eyebrow.

“No, I just--” Lestrade bit his lip again. “Why are all these names English? And descriptions?”

Mycroft smiled approvingly. “No Family gives out their real name, Lestrade. Most members won’t even know it; usually only pure Fae do. A Family’s true name is too great a weapon. No, we choose our names, every other century or so. Or if something catastrophic should happen; the Stricken Family was Alight not sixty years ago.”

“They are descriptions, though,” Lestrade said. “They mean something.”

“They must.” Mycroft shrugged, an oddly graceful and delicate movement on him. “If they didn’t, they wouldn’t stick. Your Family, for example, has been Wintered for hundreds of years, ever since it almost died out entirely.”

“You’ll tell me how that happened, right?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yours never was a large Family. The gift of truth?” He smiled at Lestrade. “Hardly one to amuse or enthrall Fae. No.” His gaze unfocused, became distant. “Your Family just began to die. And then, to escape it, many began to choose. And so Gregory and Elaine decided to close you off, to keep you from mixing with Fae, because it was from Fae that the danger, the illness, must have come.”

“Gregory and Elaine?” Lestrade leaned closer, over the forgotten scone and tea. “My mother, Elaine?”

“The last pure Fae of your Family,” Mycroft said gently.

Lestrade laughed uneasily and shook his head. “No. Not my mother. I mean, come on. I’m human, right?”

“Almost human,” Mycroft corrected quickly, raising his eyebrow again.

“Fine, yes. Almost,” Lestrade allowed. “But if she was pure, then I shouldn’t be, well.”

“If Fae genetics worked as human genetics did, perhaps you wouldn’t be so human,” Mycroft said. “But a Family’s power depends on how many lines, how many members it has. Your Family was nearly destroyed. And you, you were the proof of it.”

Lestrade closed his eyes against the prickle of moisture.

“The Stricken Family has, in recent years, been experiencing what yours did,” Mycroft continued gently, after a kind pause. “That was my brother’s research. He wanted to discover what happened to your Family, and what is happening to the Stricken Family.”

“And felt that marrying into it was the way to go?” Lestrade said, smiling though he was still blinking hard.

“He becomes, ah, fascinated with his work.” Mycroft frowned at his tea, and thin steam rose from it again. He sipped. “I do think he fell in love with Victor Trevor, or at the very least, became enthralled. Mummy was thrilled. Sherlock had had so little interest in anything Fae; she was worried he’d choose when he was little more than fifty.”

“Why would he do that?”

“The Fae world is dying, Lestrade,” Mycroft said with a surprisingly sweet smile. “Where it isn’t actively doing so, it’s stagnating. My brother requires so much more than a small, dying, changeless world.”

“And you don’t?” Lestrade met Mycroft’s reserved gaze with his chin jutted out in challenge.

“I am trying to save it,” Mycroft said quietly, “just as Sherlock was, and with as little success, I fear.”

*********

The next two days went by quickly for how dull they were. Hugh didn’t contact him; there was no more information to be found about Neville St. Clair or his murderers. Mycroft, after inquiring carefully about his schedule, showed up at his flat at six o’clock precisely each afternoon, which ceased to be infuriating once Lestrade saw him carefully climb out of the pantry.

“You’ve connected the Fae world to my pantry?” Lestrade said, knowing that a wholly inappropriate grin was stretching his mouth.

“It seemed the best option,” Mycroft said airily. “It’s a full-sized door, and one you seldom use.”

Mycroft stayed each afternoon just long enough to make tea and to see Lestrade eat something before he disappeared, citing “research” as an excuse. Lestrade wasn’t sure why he bothered to show up at all.

It was Friday morning when Hugh reappeared, lounging in Lestrade’s office--behind his desk, even--when Lestrade arrived. He was even thinner and paler than before, and there were huge, dark circles under his eyes.

“Christ, kid, what are you doing to yourself?” Lestrade burst out.

Hugh rolled his eyes. “Obviously I’m not doing it to myself.”

“Tell that to them.” Lestrade indicated the rest of New Scotland Yard with a jerk of his chin, fighting with his scarf. “Three people told me that the junkie was waiting in my office. Here, get out of my chair.”

“I’m clean,” Hugh said, and actually grinned when Lestrade stared at him. “I’ve been studying. You humans, busy as bees, aren’t you? This internet, now.” He shook his head, but looked pleased.

“So what is it, then?” Lestrade asked. “Seriously. Get out of my chair.”

“Use that one.” Hugh copied Lestrade, gesturing to the ‘guest’ chair with a jutted chin. “How’s your intended?”

“Fine,” Lestrade said warily, and sat down, wincing at the unfortunate angle of the back and remembering why this one was on the wrong side of the desk. “Why do you want to know?”

“How did you meet?” Hugh asked. Despite his frail appearance, he could still level a hell of a stare.

“Why do you care?” Lestrade asked in return.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” Hugh asked, and laughed: a harsh, painful sound. “You’re so human. Have you spoken to your patriarch lately, or any of your Family?”

Lestrade stiffened. “I’ve been busy--”

“You’re engaged to be married and your Family isn’t around at all?” Hugh squirmed a bit, getting himself more comfortable in the chair. “You’ve been sacrificed. You’re out. However Mycroft winkled you out of the woodwork, you’re stuck with him now. Oh, Gregory must have been furious.” And he laughed again, steepling his fingers and grinning nastily at Lestrade.

“What the hell do you know about it?” Lestrade demanded, standing up and leaning over the desk.

“It’s quite a coup, I have to admit,” Hugh said conversationally, “getting Elaine’s son. Getting any of the Wintered Family at all, really. Mycroft must have really wanted to show his brother up.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Lestrade half-shouted, and then flushed a sickly red. It hadn’t been like that, he was fairly sure. No one knew how desperate Mycroft had been. No one knew that he’d known for days that his brother was gone. They were working from a false set of variables.

But he was, too, wasn’t he? Or, at least, working without knowing all the variables.

“I’m sure it was an epic romance,” Hugh said dryly. “But it remains that the Wintered Family had cut itself off from all Fae contact, in an effort to preserve itself from destruction. Even the Hidden Family marries into other Families; your Family refused to do that. Did you think to wonder why?”

“No,” Lestrade said, standing back. “I didn’t think about it at all.”

“Cut yourself off, didn’t you?” Hugh continued. “After your mother’s death.”

“Shut up,” Lestrade said, but there was very little strength in his voice.

“So it isn’t as if you’ve lost much. Your Family is safe, you belong to Mycroft, and if you should suffer the ailment that almost wiped out your Family ages ago, well, what of it?” Hugh’s eyes were distant. “No. I can’t imagine Gregory would so easily give you up.”

“Who the fuck is Gregory?” Lestrade demanded.

Hugh refocused, eyebrows rising delicately. “Does your patriarch go by a new name?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lestrade fumed, and sat down abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You do know your patriarch,” Hugh said quietly. There was a strangeness lurking around the edges of his expression, and Lestrade thought fast.

“What do you want with that information?” he asked. “My Family’s cut off. You don’t need to know anything about they’re--we’re doing now.”

“You have some useless gift, don’t you?” Hugh said, irritation settling over him. “You can spot a cardsharp, or you always answer truthfully when asked the time, regardless of whether you knew it. What a fall from grace.”

“Oi!”

“I need a gift like your mother’s.” Hugh sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I need a judge. I need what the Wintered Family is supposed to be. To force him to speak the truth, or to show everyone what the truth is. But no.” He made a deep sound of disgust. “If I had the time...”

“Don’t you?” Lestrade asked.

Hugh looked at him sharply. “There aren’t years enough left to the earth to get your patriarch to speak to me.”

“But you don’t even have that much, do you?” Lestrade jumped up and walked around the desk, watching Hugh hunch in on himself protectively. “You’re Stricken, aren’t you? You’re suffering from whatever killed my Family, whatever’s working on yours.”

“I told you--”

“You told me a lie and I didn’t much care, and I don’t care now,” Lestrade interrupted. The kid’s face was deathly pale, and close up he could see how his hands trembled faintly. “You have to let someone help you. You are literally dying in front of me. I can see it,” he stressed when Hugh tried to argue. “Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Can you even travel home?”

Something flickered in his expression and Lestrade didn’t wait any longer. “You can stay at mine. Come on.”

“I can’t go to yours!” Hugh said in disgust. “Your intended--”

“There’s an announcement tonight, the official one,” Lestrade said. “For us. You can stay in the bedroom. He won’t see you.”

Hugh’s eyes flickered back and forth as he thought. “You won’t tell him I’m there. And he won’t come looking?”

“No.”

“It’s all human, isn’t it?” Hugh mused. “Your job, your home.”

“You said it yourself,” Lestrade said lightly, and pulled the kid to his feet. “I’ll even feed you, and let you use my phone. You can use the internet.”

That got him moving.

*********

Hugh was settled into Lestrade’s bed with a bowl of soup and Lestrade’s phone, under strict orders not to answer it should it ring or to read or send any texts. Lestrade was fairly sure he’d regret it, but there was no other way he’d get the kid to stay and to rest. With any luck at all, he might even sleep.

Lestrade went out, got himself some lunch, and returned home to eat and watch some telly. The bedroom was quiet, deathly so, but he didn’t go to check on Hugh. If he was asleep, the last thing Lestrade wanted to do was wake him.

And so it was, between one dull program and another, Lestrade fell asleep himself, dreaming uneasily of that book of Mycroft’s, or rather his brother’s, the one with the picture of the man with a shadow inside of him. In the dream it was burning, fine ash spreading everywhere and covering Mycroft’s study. He couldn’t move to stop it.

“Gregory,” someone said, and prodded his shoulder gently but insistently. Lestrade opened his eyes and sat up abruptly; Mycroft backed away a step, watching him closely.

“What?” Lestrade managed, and rubbed at his face.

“You were having a nightmare, I think,” Mycroft said. His lips quirked. “A hazard of the job, I suppose.”

“It wasn’t...” Lestrade trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. “Ugh. I can’t remember. My mouth tastes terrible.”

Mycroft handed him a small, dark green, porcelain glass. Lestrade peered into it, wrinkling his nose at the very minty smell.

“It will help,” Mycroft said patiently, and Lestrade gave him one dubious look before knocking it back.

He coughed and brought his hand up to his burning nose; it felt like his sinuses were on fire, and his throat and his stomach burned icily. Then it was gone, and he was wide, wide awake and aware.

“That was terrible,” he said, handing the cup back to Mycroft.

“I quite like it,” Mycroft said mildly. The cup disappeared back into ether.

“Are we going then?” Lestrade said, remembering suddenly that Hugh was in his bedroom, and that he didn’t want to be found.

“Ah, momentarily,” Mycroft said, and fidgeted with the umbrella he was holding for whatever reason. “I thought we might have a quick planning session.”

“What for?”

“This is our announcement, you realise,” Mycroft said, shifting his weight. “We aren’t riding my brother’s coattails this time. We are the main event.”

“Everyone staring, I get it,” Lestrade said, getting to his feet. “But we’ll just duck around it, or dance--”

“It’s not a ball this time,” Mycroft interrupted, looking apologetic. “Mummy noticed that you didn’t much enjoy the dancing. We’re to be standing around, receiving the guests, mingling.”

“I’d really rather drive a spike through my throat,” Lestrade said flatly.

“We must decide what we are to tell everyone,” Mycroft said softly, and twisted the umbrella around again. “About how we met, and other sundry details.”

“Did you make tea?” Lestrade asked, and turned Mycroft toward the kitchen with an easy grip on the shoulder. “It’s fine, you know. I’ve done undercover. Doesn’t take me long to think up a story.”

“Really,” Mycroft murmured. He was already focusing his energy on creation, lips tilted up in an understated smile.

Lestrade waited, watching the slow spinning of the new tea service--white and gold, with graceful red leaves, too small to be Canadian though. He knew that they wouldn’t be able to claim their meeting had had anything to do with the Fae world, but how often did Mycroft leave it?

He thought about what Hugh had said; Mycroft’s rumoured laziness, and his own Family’s self-imposed alienation.

“Gregory?”

“We weren’t always closed off,” Lestrade thought aloud. “Miriam’s father was something else. He could make bells ring, even when there weren’t any.” He remembered a few Christmases from his youth, how Jacob had done entire concerts of carols in ghostly chimes. He hadn’t seen Jacob in years, though; not since before his mum’s death.

“Graced,” Mycroft said, taking a seat. “Their gift is music.”

Sophie and Ian did have an aptitude for it, Lestrade remembered. “That’s why they have some Fae talent, then. They’re not all Wintered.”

“Which is also why you might be considered a greater prize,” Mycroft told him. “You’re pure to your Family, for all that you’re very nearly human.”

Lestrade snorted. “I am--”

“Don’t,” Mycroft said quickly, holding up a hand. Lestrade subsided, glaring at his cup. “Very nearly is all you need admit to, Lestrade.”

“You can call me Greg,” Lestrade said, reaching for a biscuit. Mycroft’s silence made him look up; the red in his cheeks made him look down. “Well, we are engaged, aren’t we?”

“But how did that come to pass?” Mycroft mused. He was fidgeting with his umbrella again.

“Do you come here, to London, for any reason?” Lestrade dunked the biscuit in his tea and smiled to himself at Mycroft’s expression. “Any place will do. It’s just more unlikely, isn’t it, that we would have met someplace Fae?”

“A bookshop, perhaps,” Mycroft offered. “There are some written accounts of events singular to Fae that have, nevertheless, slipped into human consciousness. I’ve collected a few.”

Lestrade smiled, remembering his study. “All right. You were in a bookshop, collecting your account, when I ducked in due to the rain. Possibly I tripped over your umbrella; that would get us talking, right?”

“I would certainly apologise,” Mycroft said, beginning to smile as well.

“And I would find your manner and style irresistible,” Lestrade added, and took a sip of his tea. Red was a good colour on Mycroft, he decided, and bit his lip to keep from laughing. “You would be entirely taken in by my clumsy attempts to flirt with you.”

“Entirely,” Mycroft said, and it sounded like a promise. “How much longer until one of us broached the subject of engagement?”

“Not much longer,” Lestrade said, still gnawing on his lip. “A few months? That would explain why we hadn’t met each other’s Families, and why we don’t know all that much about each other.”

“Three, then,” Mycroft said decisively. He looked down at his umbrella. “I am not one to, ah, rush into things, but--” He stopped, examining the umbrella’s handle as if it were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“I’m sure I was very convincing,” Lestrade said, and allowed himself to grin freely. “And the reason you didn’t say anything was because you didn’t want to show your brother up before his announcement. Maybe during, fine, but not before.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, relief colouring his voice. He looked at Lestrade again with bright, warm eyes. “Brilliant, Gregory. Greg.”

“Whichever you prefer,” Lestrade said, and put a little more warmth into his voice to add, “Mycroft.”

It was entirely worth it just for the way Mycroft’s ears turned pink.

*********

“Oh god no,” Lestrade said, looking down at the diaphanous silvery material wafting around him. “I need trousers. I’m not going anywhere looking like this.”

“There are trousers, underneath,” Mycroft said.

“No! I mean, what is this?” Lestrade lifted his arm and watched the sleeve flow with the action. “I’m not wearing this daft--whatever it is!”

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed, and slid his hands down Lestrade’s arms once more. It became a relatively simple three piece suit, in a dark, charcoal grey. The only silver that remained was in the tie.

“Really?” Lestrade asked, but Mycroft only smiled, allowing his own suit to change to a deep, lovely shade of blue, the tie in a lighter shade. Lestrade gave up the fight after that.

“You’ll be magnificent when this has all gone silver,” Mycroft said, and set to work on trying to bring order to Lestrade’s hair. Lestrade held still under his ministrations, wondering if red was a good colour on him.

They appeared in Moira’s study, the warm smell of a wood fire lingering in Lestrade’s nostrils. There was, again, the noise of a crowd beyond the double doors, but his attention was drawn the the study itself: curtains drawn, the barest hint of light from the moon, the books and blankets and pillows strewn about on the floor, as if they had been thrown or kicked, and more than once.

“Don’t mention Sherlock to her, please,” Mycroft whispered, taking his arm.

“She hasn’t found anything?” Lestrade whispered back. “No more clues, other than London?”

Mycroft’s expression was hard around the edges. “There is nothing like our own prejudice to keep us from seeing the truth.”

They walked together to the doors and opened them, and Lestrade stared out in the curving hallway, leading to--

“I am not walking down those stairs like something out of a goddamned film,” he declared, flushing bright red.

“It’s Mummy’s estate, you know,” Mycroft said, a small smile curving his lips.

“Meaning?”

“There’s no other way out of this hallway.”

Lestrade turned to look, but it was true. There was a window behind them, open to a gentle breeze, and that was all.

Mycroft patted his hand. “Just try not to trip.”

Lestrade tried to focus on the lights, on the heat of Mycroft’s body next to his, and of course on his feet, moving in a measured tread down the seemingly endless stairs, but nothing could have blocked out the swell of voices and the sheer breathless weight of all of those eyes, focused on him and Mycroft.

Mycroft, he could see from the corner of his eye, was taking it well; with his chin up and expression calm, he faced down the stares that Lestrade was determinedly avoiding. When they at last reached the last step, his arm slid around Lestrade’s waist, squeezing lightly, and Lestrade looked up at the crowd.

“If I may present to you all my son, Mycroft Holmes, and his intended, Gregory Lestrade of the Wintered Family,” Moira said. She moved to stand next to Lestrade, ghostly perfect in a flowing white gown, as the guests began their approach, all bright eyes and eager faces. It was only Mycroft’s arm at his waist and Moira’s hand on his arm that kept Lestrade from bolting.

“However did you manage to ensnare a Wintered, Mycroft?” someone asked, and from there it was a blur of faces and disturbingly specific questions, and coquettish glances and lingering touches, and Lestrade knew that he was probably hurting Mycroft, clutching his wrist so tightly, but he couldn’t help it.

“He’s absolutely beautiful, Mycroft,” said a woman wearing an explosion of pink silk, and patted Lestrade’s cheek.

“He doesn’t much like being talked about like he isn’t here,” Lestrade snapped, but she’d already moved on and was talking to Moira, and a man with blue-ish skin was introducing himself as a member of the Measured Family and asking after a distant cousin of Lestrade’s, Gwen Hollings.

“Are we done here?” Lestrade hissed desperately as the crowd began to disperse slightly, spreading out around the hall and into other areas of the estate.

Moira laughed, a light, chiming sound. “Certainly, Lestrade. Go on and enjoy the party; I must speak with my son for a moment.”

“But--” Mycroft met Lestrade’s frantic gaze with a conciliatory grimace.

“It won’t take long,” he said quietly. He and Moira disappeared into the study, leaving Lestrade at the foot of the stairs, and at the mercy of the crowd.

“A bookshop, really?” someone asked, and Lestrade turned to meet Victor’s bright, cheery grin.

“A chance in a million,” Lestrade said vaguely, trying to look like he wasn’t staring forlornly at the study doors.

“Oh, come on, give him a break,” Victor said, and laughed. “I’ve never heard him sound so flustered! You’re terrible, you know that? Can’t you dial it back?”

“I’m--I’m sorry?”

Victor grabbed his arm and pulled him along, very nearly snickering. “He’s always so diplomatic. I mean, that’s just Mycroft. But did you hear him tell Helen off?”

“Helen?” Lestrade searched the blur that was his memory of recent events. “The peacock woman? He told her that her question was inappropriate.”

That just made Victor laugh harder. “Yes, but he sounded irritated! You should be kinder to him; it won’t be easy for him to start telling the truth at his age!”

They walked through a small glass door and out into a small, empty walled garden that was lightly dusted with snow. It was cold enough that their breaths hung in the air, and Lestrade’s eyes stung.

“This isn’t a very popular garden,” Victor explained, and let Lestrade go to rest against the wall, next to the door. He smiled up at the small, distant moon. “I like it, though. It’s quiet.”

“It is that,” Lestrade muttered. Every sound seemed magnified and echoey, chiming in his ears. He rubbed his arms and then huffed on his hands, his skin already feeling cold and dry.

“Sorry,” Victor said, and stepped forward to cup his hands, startling Lestrade--until warmth sprang up between them, from the gentle glow around Victor’s fingers. He smiled at Lestrade in the faint orange light. “Stricken Family. Fire’s our gift.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Lestrade said, very aware of how close they were standing, and very uncomfortable with that awareness. He tried to put some distance between them without losing all of the offered warmth.

“Did you?” Victor asked. “Who from--or from whom, I guess I should say.” He laughed easily and moved closer. Lestrade was aware of their small, almost graceful shuffle; he felt a flicker of unease when he saw how neatly Victor had placed himself between Lestrade and the door.

“Mycroft, of course,” he said lightly. There was a light, chilling breeze at the back of his neck and he shivered. The orange glow got brighter as Victor leaned over their clasped hands.

“Mm, of course,” Victor agreed. “You know, I haven’t met a Wintered in a long time. A very long time.” He breathed on their hands, huffing as Lestrade had done, and the warmth felt almost liquid, sliding over Lestrade’s palms.

“How old are you?” Lestrade asked, trying to pull his hands away.

Victor tutted at him, then leaned close and breathed warmly on his throat. “Nearly three hundred, now.”

“Listen--” Lestrade jerked back and hit the cold, hard trunk of a frozen tree, snow and small icicles raining down around them. The sharp, high note of shattering ice filled his ears. “Back off, all right?”

“Wish I hadn’t lost the taste for your hearts,” Victor said regretfully, and put his hand over Lestrade’s chest. Lestrade drew in a sharp breath as his heart started to beat faster, and faster yet. “So distant. I can’t even reach it. Of course, Sherlock was the same way, at first.”

Lestrade tried to speak, but lightning hot pain raced down his arm from his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.

“You were a brutal group. Actually killed my host once you’d found her,” Victor continued. He moved his hand to put his mouth over Lestrade’s wildly beating heart, breath warm and wet through the suit. “Took me some time to get back. But I always do, you know. One way or another.”

Lestrade managed to make a small, strangled sound as his vision started to fade.

“But Sherlock first, if they can find him, and then I’ll have the rest of the Deepened Family.” Victor stepped back, petting Lestrade’s chest gently. “Don’t worry too much, Gregory Lestrade. You’ll belong to it before long, and I’ll have you, too.” He kissed Lestrade’s cheek. “Forget it for now.”

He was falling, or sliding down. He thought he heard the door open, but his heart was thundering too loudly in his ears.

There was a sudden rushing of air, a terrific wind, and then the bite of snow on his lips.

*********


	3. Chapter 3

*********

Lestrade was vaguely aware of hands, of someone calling to him. There was a warm smell, and then everything was warm, perfectly warm, and there was a hand at his throat, fingers checking for his pulse. Then there was that voice again, saying, “Gregory. Gregory, please.”

Something wet and cold slid down from his eyelashes, a small trickle down his cheek. Lestrade blinked his eyes open and focused on a vague, oval blur that became Mycroft’s face.

He blinked again and turned his head, pressing his cheek to the soft pillow beneath his head to rub away the water. Mycroft’s hands were gentle on his face, his thumbs stroking along Lestrade’s jaw and throat.

“Gregory, are you--” Mycroft cut himself off and swallowed hard. “Are you coherent?”

“Most people ask, ‘are you all right?’” Lestrade muttered, wincing at the tight, sore feeling in his throat and chest. He rubbed at his breastbone, still turned into the pillow and breathing in its lovely, vaguely spicy scent.

“It seemed rather obvious that you were not,” Mycroft said. His voice was very quiet and his hands were still petting Lestrade’s face and throat. His eyes flickered this way and that, cataloging Lestrade’s features and darting away at any time they met Lestrade’s curious gaze.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Lestrade said finally. Mycroft made an angry sound deep in his throat and turned away, clenching his hands and pressing them down on his thighs. Lestrade pushed himself up on one arm and held the other out to touch Mycroft’s shoulder gently. “Hey.”

“There’s one thing you neglected to deduce about the books in my study,” Mycroft said, and Lestrade looked around to see that they were in Mycroft’s study, and that the books that had been lying all over the floor were neatly stacked on a small end table. “It would have been the work of a moment to have them up on tables, or stacked, but I treated my brother’s things in a poor manner because I was angry with him.” He shifted and Lestrade felt the loss of his heat along his hip. “I react poorly when I am frightened.”

“Most people do,” Lestrade offered, and sank back onto the pillow. The sofa was very plush, and very comfortable. He looked up at one of the hovering lanterns and felt a small, niggling sense of unease.

“Do you remember what happened?” Mycroft asked. He turned to look at Lestrade, hands still clenched on his thighs, and Lestrade reached out to cover his nearer hand with his own.

“Just...” He stroked Mycroft’s knuckles with his thumb. “You and your mother. You went into the study.”

“For a few minutes,” Mycroft said. He was watching Lestrade’s hand with a rapt, fascinated light in his eyes. “Then I couldn’t find you, until I searched-- You were in the winter garden.”

“Where?” Lestrade tucked his arm under his head and shuffled onto his side as Mycroft relaxed from his stiff, straight posture, slumping just a bit. His hands relaxed and Lestrade coaxed the left one open, tracing over it with his index finger.

“Perhaps you should see a physician,” Mycroft said suddenly, tensing to jump to his feet. Lestrade pushed himself up on his arm and grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder, preventing him from getting up.

“Really? You’ve rescued me from a swoon and you’re going to drop me at the nearest A&E?” he said with what he hoped was a teasing grin.

Mycroft’s expression was still of panic and concern. “You shouldn’t take this lightly. You can be hurt, Gregory, and I can’t--”

“Do you?” Lestrade interrupted.

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth, then said, “What?”

“Do you really intend to marry me?” Lestrade relaxed his grip minutely, ready to dig his fingers in again should Mycroft try to stand. “It was a ruse, wasn’t it? To get out of marrying Victor in your brother’s place. Why did you do that? Pick a stranger, I mean, over someone you knew?”

“I--” Mycroft stared at him. “Victor is--my brother intended to marry him.”

“Yes, and then he ran away. Correct?” Lestrade let his hand fall, resting his arm along the curve of his own body.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, obviously trying hard to put thought to speech. “My brother loved him. I couldn’t.”

There was more, Lestrade knew it, but Mycroft didn’t seem able to say it. He hardly seemed able to think it; his jaw was working, tensed so tight it was near giving Lestrade a headache. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the bulge near the back of his cheek.

“The Debt was convenient,” he said quietly.

Mycroft turned quickly, cradling Lestrade’s face once again with both hands, eyes dark and desperate. “No. I would--I want--” He closed his eyes again, hissing with frustration.

Lestrade smiled, lips parted, and touched Mycroft’s chin with one finger. “You should kiss me.”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open. He searched Lestrade’s face, surprise written clearly on his own features.

“Oh, go on,” Lestrade teased, his grin stretching wider. He touched Mycroft’s bottom lip and licked his own. “Please?”

“Please,” Mycroft repeated, and finally, finally leaned closer, the faintest blush high in his cheeks. “You really don’t want to go to the, what was it, A&E?”

“Really don’t,” Lestrade confirmed, and laughed at Mycroft’s frown. It must have been the laugh that got him, because Mycroft swooped in, pressing soft, barely parted lips to his lower lip. Lestrade shifted onto his back again, freeing his arm so that he could pull Mycroft closer, turning the kiss into a proper snog.

Mycroft half-stood, trying to rearrange himself so that he was straddling Lestrade without ending the kiss. Lestrade whimpered at the loss of those warm hands at his jaw, and sighed when Mycroft’s warmth surrounded him, pleasant and just heavy enough to be real, and lovely. He got a hand on Mycroft’s tie, trying to work it loose as he broke their kiss, licking up Mycroft’s jaw and then fastening his mouth on that long, arched neck.

“No, no,” Mycroft murmured, trying to direct Lestrade’s face back up. Lestrade grinned again, succeeding with the tie, and nipped the skin very lightly. Mycroft grabbed his hair then and yanked lightly.

“Oh,” Lestrade said, pressing his open, gasping mouth to the underside of Mycroft’s chin. A shiver worked its way through his body, scalp to toes. Mycroft hesitated a moment, then yanked again, harder, and Lestrade let out a full-throated moan at the sensation, his head falling back.

“Really,” Mycroft whispered, and dragged his nails lightly over Lestrade’s scalp. He kissed him again, too, gentle kisses that allowed Lestrade’s gasps and cries to be heard without much muffling. Their legs tangled together and Lestrade managed to hook his high up on Mycroft’s hip, the welcome weight of Mycroft’s body driving his arousal higher, spiraling up under the heat and pressure.

“You’ve no idea,” Lestrade gasped, and pulled him into another deep, warm kiss. Mycroft began to rock his hips gently, using the leverage of his position to keep Lestrade from hurrying the pace. Lestrade tried to get his hands between them, to get Mycroft’s jacket and shirt off, feeling keenly the constriction of his own, but Mycroft pressed closer, making Lestrade sink deeper into the plush cushions. Another yank of his hair had Lestrade cursing breathlessly, squirming mindlessly beneath him.

Mycroft pushed himself up a bit, panting. “We should--”

“If you say anything other than fuck--”

The sudden rush of silver and smoke in no way disguised the loss of constricting material, or the shift from sofa to bed. Lestrade pulled Mycroft down, arching against him and so very, very grateful for the sweet slide of skin on skin. He didn’t think he could have managed the whole awkward procedure of undressing and walking to a bedroom; what luck that he didn’t have to do so.

He bit Mycroft’s collar bone and was treated to another sharp pull on his hair. “Oh, please--fuck, Mycroft, please--”

Then Mycroft’s warm mouth was on his ear, and his teeth biting, tugging on the lobe--another thing he hadn’t known he’d loved, Lestrade realised dizzily as the rush went straight to his cock, making him push up desperately. He was there, he was right there, and even as he tried to pull back and prolong it, the pure bliss of it, Mycroft was scratching lightly through his hair just over his ear and biting harder.

It was too much--he came without a sound, sucking in air and holding on tight, trying not to lose his awareness of Mycroft and his own body as warmth and pleasure filled him, shattering his perception--it was never like this, never, not with anyone else; Lestrade was certain of that. He’d never felt like a simple orgasm had torn him apart, left him broken and blissful in someone’s arms and so grateful for the experience he could weep.

He could barely keep his eyes open, only just aware of the sharp press of Mycroft’s cock on his belly, the warm kiss he laid on Lestrade’s throat. He wanted it to go on; he wanted Mycroft to fuck him, to push him right through bliss and back into need, as impossible as that was. Lassitude stole through him, weighing his limbs and eyelids down, but he managed to whisper, “Don’t stop, please.”

Mycroft moved slowly, with tender care, pushing him onto his side and settling behind him--not pushing in, not taking him, but pushing slick and wonderful between Lestrade’s thighs, and that was good, too. That was wonderful, and Lestrade sighed into the rhythm, gave himself up to it, until Mycroft was coming warm between his legs, gasping harshly and clutching him tight.

“You’re wonderful,” he slurred, awkwardly petting the arm wrapped around his chest. Mycroft huffed and nuzzled his hair, pressing a sloppy, tender kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Sleep?” Mycroft suggested, and Lestrade hummed in agreement, more than half-way there.

*********

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, and Lestrade was awake, deliciously aware of Mycroft’s hand stroking carefully through his hair. “Do you work today?”

“Christ,” Lestrade muttered. “I don’t even know.”

He sat up and got his first look at the shadowy bedroom, which may or may not have existed the night before. There was a good chance it hadn’t; Lestrade didn’t think Fae needed sleep, and from what Hugh had said, Mycroft hadn’t done much in the way of needing a bedroom for guests in a long time--

Hugh. Lestrade brought his hand to his face and tried not to swear. “Your brother is in my flat.”

“What?” Mycroft said, drawing back.

“Tall, skinny, black curls; looks a lot like your mum, in fact?” Lestrade asked from behind his hand. “Except lighter eyes. Icier. In personality, too.”

“Your informant,” Mycroft said. Lestrade dared a peek and saw how wide Mycroft’s eyes had become.

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” Lestrade said, and laughed. He drew his knees up and clutched at his hair with both hands. “Oh, Christ.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mycroft jumped up, clothed in an instant in a grey suit. “Is he all right? I’ll collect him immediately. Thank you for looking out for him. I’ll wring his neck.”

“No, don’t,” Lestrade said, clambering out of bed as well. He, too, was clothed instantly in his comfortable grey trousers and a warm green jumper. “He’s not well. He’s coughing up blood irregularly; said he didn’t want anyone’s help--”

“Come, hurry,” Mycroft said, grabbing his arm. They were in the study in a dizzying flash of silver, the lingering scent of smoke, and then through the door and out the pantry. Mycroft strode through the kitchen, still pulling Lestrade, shouting, “Sherlock!”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his tone vicious. Mycroft came to an abrupt stop just into the sitting room and Lestrade ran into him. Sherlock, the object of their shared horrified stare, was sitting hunched on the sofa, the duvet from Lestrade’s bed wrapped around him. He was even paler, almost paper-white, and he was trembling.

“You can’t be here,” Mycroft said, and took a step forward. “You should be at home, or with Mummy; not abusing Gregory’s hospitality!”

“Don’t lecture me!” Sherlock shouted and then doubled over, coughing so hard he shook. Mycroft rushed to him and Sherlock fended him off with one arm, the other wrapped around his torso. “You--you abused him first, you fucker.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, a wince of helpless, hopeless fear coming over his face as he looked back at Lestrade.

“He had no right,” Sherlock rasped, forcing himself to his feet. Mycroft tried to help him again and was rebuffed with a shove. “Lestrade. He had no right to force you into this.”

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade asked, looking between the two brothers.

Mycroft’s face twisted and he turned away as Sherlock snarled, “Your Debt. Your Family’s Debt. No one’s supposed to be calling that in; your Family’s been given amnesty in its seclusion.” He coughed again, hunching, a few drops of blood spattering the low coffee table. “Call it off, Lestrade. He had no right. Not to mention--” and he glared at Mycroft, who was standing still and stiff, turned away from Lestrade-- “that you’re not even Fae.”

“But--” Lestrade leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly weak.

“And you wonder why I don’t go to you for help,” Sherlock choked out, blood on his lips. “You--” He fell, dropping to his knees and retching, and Mycroft caught him with an anguished cry. The smell of woodsmoke filled the room and they were gone, leaving the duvet and a great deal of blood, too much blood, behind.

*********

Lestrade called in sick. There was simply no way he’d be able to function at the Yard, or even look anyone in the face. For the next hour, his phone went wild with texts. Bradstreet wanted to know if he’d died, Sally offered to bring soup around, and even Gregson took a moment to ensure he wasn’t at death’s door with what would have been a truly inspired bit of vulgarity if he hadn’t had on the auto correct.

It did little to comfort him, as he scrubbed purple-black blood out of his carpet.

It was odd--no. It should have been odd, but it wasn’t, not at all, that Lestrade wasn’t put out in the least by Sherlock’s revelation. It was just too late. He’d committed, and Lestrade had never done that lightly.

Desperation. He’d seen it again in Mycroft’s face as his brother crumpled to the floor. It tore at him, made him swear and attack the stain as if getting rid of it mattered.

Daytime telly was no good. He went out to Tesco and ended up wandering the aisles with a bottle of oven cleaner in one hand and tabasco sauce in the other. He didn’t even like tabasco sauce.

His phone sounded again with a text: “Ur ratfabe corpsfubkr name”

Gregson had turned off auto-correct. Shame. Lestrade texted back carefully, “Anderson”

“Gohng 2 hose hhm down after ur dc”

Either Anderson was getting the hose after Sally, or was eyeing her up again. Lestrade sighed. Neither option thrilled him.

He made it back to his flat on auto-pilot and nearly walked right into Victor.

“Lestrade,” Victor said urgently, grabbing his arm. “I have to talk to Mycroft. Can you help me?”

“What happened?” Lestrade looked around. “How’d you find my flat?”

“Does it matter?” Victor asked, his grip tightening. “Sherlock’s estate is crumbling.”

Lestrade blinked. “His what?”

“His estate. Where he lives. His--his Fae home,” Victor explained in a rush, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “It means he’s dead, or so close to dying it doesn’t make a difference--Lestrade, I have to find Mycroft!”

He remembered too easily the scene in his sitting room. “Shit,” he said, with feeling, and gestured for Victor to follow him. “Inside, all right? Come on.”

There were details he was half-registering: Victor was wearing black, and wasn’t that not done? and his own skin was crawling, his heart beating fast in a way that was familiar in a terrible way that he couldn’t place. But it all fell to the wayside under the panic, the urgency of Victor’s voice. There was truth in what he was saying. Sherlock hadn’t recovered. Lestrade hadn’t really thought he would.

And yet he hesitated before entering the kitchen, before so much as looking at the pantry.

“Lestrade,” Victor said again, raw helplessness in his tone.

“Come on,” he said again, and opened the pantry. Mycroft’s study was still linked, just a step and a world away, and he led Victor through into the small, dim room. A few lanterns woke up, glow picking up slowly, as Lestrade looked at them.

“Oh,” Victor breathed, turning around slowly to look at everything. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“How do you mean?” It was a beautiful room, but not all that impressive. Certainly not as impressive as the different parts of Moira’s estate.

“Mycroft’s so careful,” Victor said, holding up his hand. A lantern drifted closer to him, and a small spark of flame hung over Victor’s index finger. “I thought it would take ages to get at him.” A strange, ugly grimace twisted Victor’s face, and he curled his hand around the flame and brought it to his chest.

The unease was back, but Lestrade couldn’t say why. “How do we get Mycroft?” he asked instead, putting a little more distance between himself and Victor. It seemed important, although he was hyper-aware that he was letting Victor stay between himself and the door.

“He’ll notice us, if he hasn’t already,” Victor said. “We’re in his estate, after all.” He smiled oddly. “The truest part of it, even, with standing invitation. He must care about you a lot.”

“As much as Sherlock cares about you,” Lestrade mumbled. His chest was starting to hurt, and that made him feel even more panicky.

“No.” Victor shook his head, moving to inspect the books. “Sherlock doesn’t care. Sherlock is fascinated.” His gaze was unfocused and his hand trailed without direction over the spines of books. “Was fascinated. I wasn’t always like this, you know. Started out just as a chill. Gift of flame and I couldn’t get warm.” He shook his head. “Like your mother. Whiteness around the edges, until fading. But Sherlock put a stop to that, didn’t he?”

Lestrade couldn’t move. He felt cold, terribly cold, as if he were standing knee deep in snow.

“It was his interest,” Victor said, laughing a little. “He saw me. He wanted to pull me out, tear me apart, find out what made me tick and, oh, I don’t know. But he was fascinated, and I became fascinated with him...”

He remembered the garden, heart beating wildly in his ears. “You wanted to eat his heart.”

“Yes,” Victor said simply, and laughed again. “I want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter; that if he died, I’d just go on. Take his mother; take his brother. But it’s him.” He clenched his fist, his smile turning bitter. “He looked at me, and I had eyes, then, to look back. I’ve been back before this, but not like this. Not since Evelyn, and even then...” His eyes grew distant again.

Lestrade’s vision began to go grey around the edges, as his heart hammered and ached. He choked out, “You--you can’t--”

“You’re so easy to talk to,” Victor mused. “Is it your gift? I assumed it was only working on Mycroft, but I want to tell you the truth, too. I want you to know everything I’m about to do.” He walked over to Lestrade, who was leaning on the desk. “Mycroft must be distracted. Should we get his attention?”

He ducked under Lestrade’s arm, pulling it over his shoulders and helping him stand, even as the flame hovering over his hand fell to the floor and began burning merrily. It raced for the shelves and found itself thwarted, suddenly, as Mycroft appeared.

“Hi,” Victor said, pulling Lestrade up higher.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said very quietly, holding out one hand. Lestrade managed, through the fog and the pain, to meet his gaze.

“We’re not going to pretend anymore, are we?” Victor asked. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s lip curled. “London.”

Victor sighed loudly. “I don’t want to have to burn your intended’s heart out, but I will.” The pain in Lestrade’s chest trebled and he cried out. It was a short, broken sound, and then his vision was all silver. Mycroft’s arms were around him and the pain lessened, but didn’t abate entirely.

“Get out,” Mycroft snarled. Lestrade, his face buried in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, felt the lightning-edged wave of pain rising again and made a harsh sound.

“Is he dead?” Victor asked, sounding bored of all things. Lestrade’s fingers dug into Mycroft’s suit, holding on tight.

Mycroft’s tone, even more oddly, was amused. “Not yet.” Lestrade looked up and saw that he was smiling now, tight and angry. “He chose.”

His heart gave a painful lurch and then began to slow its beat, leaving Lestrade weak and shuddering, but alive.

“No,” Victor said, but it rang false.

“He was always on the edge,” Mycroft said. “You just drove him off it.”

“I’ll find him,” Victor said, a slow, burning anger in his voice.

“What good will that do you?” Mycroft asked, and laughed. The sound rang in Lestrade’s ears. “You can hurt him, enchant him, or kill him, but you will never have his heart. Never again.”

Victor’s face was a parody of itself, twisted in an impossible rage. “I’ll kill--”

“His attention belongs to the human world now,” Mycroft said smoothly, cutting right through Victor’s words. “You can’t be the center of his world. You can’t make him need you; you can’t bleed him dry. Were it anyone else, I doubt it would matter. You’d go on, destroying entire Families just to sate your lust for your own end.” He laughed, bright as a bell. “But this is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, who searched for you. You, not Victor. You. He hunted you down, he found you, he knew you for what you are, and he got away.” Mycroft’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He got away scot free, because you only delayed his choosing. You know that. He’s human now, and you’ve lost him. You’ve lost.”

Victor was silent. He stared at the floor, unmoving, for a small eternity.

Then the whole back wall of Mycroft’s study burst into flame.

“I thought I would kill you,” Victor said, just audible over the terrific roar of the fire, just visible through the heat-warped glare. “But I rather think I’ll enjoy watching you try to find some way to protect him while I hunt him down. My turn, you could say.”

It could have been the heat, or the raging, flickering light, but his features seemed to change, to become something unfamiliar, and then he was gone. Mycroft was staring the flames, his mouth slightly open, and Lestrade grabbed his chin and forced him to look at him.

“Do something!” he shouted, his skin already feeling red and raw. The dazed look cleared from Mycroft’s eyes and they were gone, the world gone silver and gorgeously cool.

But when his vision cleared, Lestrade was alone in his flat, the smell of smoke lingering, the world still, somewhere, on fire.

*********

The days melted into a monotonous blur. Lestrade was aware, vaguely, of time passing, of days and nights rolling away since the moment he’d yanked open his pantry and found a few shelves and stale bread, but it held no interest to him. He ate when his team forced him to and he slept when his body overrode his mind.

He could still smell smoke. To cover it up, he started smoking again, up to a pack a day when George finally graced him with his presence.

“I heard,” George said, and Lestrade looked up. He’d been sitting on the sofa, staring at his hands. It was his day off. He was fairly certain.

“You heard what?” he asked. His voice was raspy with little use.

George put a glass of water down on the coffee table and pocketed Lestrade’s cigarettes. “Eat something and you can have them back,” he said when Lestrade started to protest.

Lestrade got up, walked to the kitchen, and found the bit of Chinese he had left over from lunch. Sally had brought it for him. He’d eaten half of it to stop her watching him with big, pleading eyes.

“Your fiance and his brother,” George said. He was standing in the kitchen doorway now, watching Lestrade carefully. “Chosen. The other one’s fiance too.”

“Why do you use the human word?” Lestrade asked. Because George was watching, he put the box in the microwave to warm up. “The rest of them said intended all the time.”

“Guess,” George said flatly, and took a seat at the table.

“No,” Lestrade said and, after taking out his food, sat opposite.

“It happened to our Family, you know,” George told him, frustration leaking around the edges of his calm, controlled tone. “It’s not all as spectacular as that Trevor kid, but we had that, too. All kinds.”

“No,” Lestrade said again. He wasn’t guessing. He wasn’t engaging. He took a bite of warm rice and chewed mechanically. George, watching him, sighed loudly.

“It’s just death, Greg. Happens to all things, even Fae. Everything gets tired. I think it’s a law; I tried physics for a while, I really did. One of your cousins was interested in it.” George rubbed at his eyes. “Good god, kid. You felt it too for a while, but then, you’re human, aren’t you?”

Lestrade looked up then. “So being human means what, in this scenario? I can’t die the same way? I can’t get tired?”

“You’re tired now, and you’re dying,” George said flatly. “Happens to you, but in a different way. Because you’ve got a bigger world and a better system. Look--”

The kitchen faded. They were standing on the top of some building, staring at a half-familiar city-scape. Something he’d seen in movies, perhaps. It was warm, but the wind was whipping around them.

“Billions of you,” George said. Lestrade looked at him, standing in his too-big, dusty black suit, hands in his pockets. “How do humans become human? They socialise, with other humans. So how do Fae become Fae? Same way. Except there are so few of us, now.”

“Because you’re dying,” Lestrade said.

“It creeps up on us,” George said, sighing into the wind. “One Fae, in one Family, stops wanting it. Life, I mean. It’s insidious; you can’t control it. I know, humans get something like it,” he said, catching Lestrade’s raised eyebrow, “but it’s not the same thing. I don’t pretend it’s any less devastating or deadly, but it’s not the same. It’s not our death.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Lestrade said.

“All we have is each other,” George said. “And when one of us dies, we lose a vital part of ourselves. Someone who helped define us. Someone who helped make up a part of our world. And we become vulnerable to dying, too. So maybe it’s a shadow under the skin, a hunger that can’t be satisfied; possession by death. Fae death. Wearing our own skins.” He shrugged. “For your mother, it was a whiteness around the edges. The whole world leached of colour, of depth. She told me she couldn’t even see you anymore, and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t fight it, and she was too Fae to choose human and escape it. Because choosing does it for us; the sensory overload alone keeps us from breaking apart.”

They were somewhere else, a hill covered in greenery, with a small, rundown temple in some style that Lestrade vaguely identified as “Asian” to their right.

“I’m not saying this well. My daughter, Evelyn. She caught it.” George’s eyes were deep with a well-remembered pain. “She tried to live through by inflicting it on others; watching them suffer kept her going. We--I--”

“You killed her,” Lestrade said, remembering what Victor had said. “Victor remembered it.”

“I did,” George admitted. “I had to protect my Family, even at the cost of her life. Even though she told me, it told me, that it would remember. That I would never be forgiven, never allowed to forget.”

They were silent for a time, watching the clouds move slowly across the sky.

“Victor made a hole in Sherlock’s heart,” Lestrade said. “He was coughing blood up all over the place; all over my flat, too.”

“That would have been the expression of it,” George said. “The reality of it would have been this Victor damaging your Sherlock’s psyche, destroying his ability to create himself or use his gift, even, without someone else’s aid. His own aid, I’d bet. Keep him tied tight, trapped.”

Lestrade thought about how Sherlock had coughed more often when he’d used his gift, or any kind of ability, and nodded shortly.

“I cut my Family off when I’d finally rooted Evelyn out,” George said. His voice was heavy. “No one wanted to be around us anyway. They knew death was catching. And I didn’t want it back in my Family. But it came, all the same. It never left.” He swallowed. “After Evelyn, it took her daughter. Elaine.”

Lestrade stared at him.

“She was our last pure-born Fae. I wanted it that way. Made sure we had human in us, in all of us, so that we could choose if we had to,” George continued. He smiled at Lestrade, a fierce grin. “I wanted my Family to have a fighting chance, always.”

“Mum named me for you, didn’t she?” Lestrade said finally, beginning to grin. “Great-grandfather.”

“You didn’t like that we had the same name when you were, oh, three,” George said, and laughed. “I didn’t mind changing it.”

“You sacrificed me,” Lestrade said. George’s eyes were dark and knowing. “You cut me off and let me fend entirely for myself.”

“If you want me to be sorry, you’re going to be disappointed,” Goerge warned.

“No,” Lestrade said. “I wouldn’t want you to be sorry.”

“Because I don’t regret it.”

Lestrade nodded, then shook his head. “Neither do I.”

They were back in his kitchen. George looked around, smiling strangely to himself, before he met Lestrade’s eyes again and held out his hand. “Thank you for saving my Family.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, slightly choked. He shook George’s hand.

“You’re human, Gregory Lestrade,” George said, with that heavy ring of truth. “You’ve met your last obligation to Fae.”

His vision blurring, Lestrade nevertheless was able to laugh. “Where am I going to find someone to make ridiculous demands of me now?”

“Oh, I have faith in you,” George said, and then he was gone. But it didn’t hurt. Lestrade looked down at his table, at a new, full, mouth-watering meal of Chinese that wasn’t from any takeaway he knew, and smiled.

It was going to be all right.

*********

“What’s that about?” Sally asked, catching a glimpse of his ring.

Lestrade smiled. “You wanted to be a detective. Figure it out.”

That earned him a dark look, and then Sally was out the door, heading straight for Bradstreet and Dimmock. Lestrade looked forward to hearing their theories around the office; if Gregson didn’t swear to heaven and hell that he’d been there for Lestrade’s shot-gun wedding to a bloke from the pub and end up convincing half the Constables, Lestrade would have to quit smoking cold turkey. If he’d called it right, he could use the patch.

The ring was his father’s, actually. Lestrade looked down at the worn, scratched gold and smiled. He’d made a promise, and for his part, he’d uphold it. Even if he never saw Mycroft Holmes again.

Fae who had chosen didn’t forget, exactly, he remembered George telling him once. It had been years ago. But they didn’t remember, exactly, either. It was too different, being Fae and being human. So much got lost in the translation. Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe the human life Mycroft had made for himself had no place for Gregory Lestrade. Maybe Gregory Lestrade was just a dream.

Maybe he remembered, and didn’t want Lestrade anymore. Or maybe he believed that Lestrade didn’t want him, after that mess surrounding a Debt that wasn’t supposed to called in.

He couldn’t know.

“We’re out to Brixton,” Sally said, leaning in the doorway. “Did you really get married to a bloke from the pub?”

Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek hard. “Gregson was my best man. Kept the pints coming.”

Sally rolled her eyes and swept away.

“Looks like a botched robbery,” Bradstreet told him once he’d arrived. “Woman tied to a chair, stabbed in the gut. Looks like they stuck a scarf over her eyes, but she worked it off, and that’s what got them violent.”

Lestrade suited up under Anderson’s direst glare and went to take a look for himself. She was in the dining room, photographs still underway.

“I told you, I saw two men running out, and then--” A large-ish man out in the hallway choked, gesturing toward the dining room. Lestrade went back into the dining room, nodding to a few of the forensics lads.

Anderson bustled over. “There’s the scarf, there,” he said, pointing at the floor. “Hair on it looks to be hers--”

“Because it was around her neck,” a familiar voice said, and Lestrade turned around with his heart in his throat. There, in all his tall, lanky, black-coat and icy-eyed glory, was Sherlock Holmes, walking in as if he owned the world and every crime scene in it. “It wasn’t ever on her face; she was stabbed before she was tied to that chair. Does it really take you lot more than a second to see that?”

Anderson’s mouth was hanging open. “Who the hell--”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, fighting a grin with all his strength.

Sherlock looked at him then, and gave a nod of recognition. “Lestrade. Doing well, I hope.”

“Fine,” Lestrade said, the smile breaking through.

“What is this, a reunion?” Anderson demanded. “You can’t be in here.”

“You need me in here,” Sherlock snapped. “A man off the street could give a better analysis of this scene than you. And since I’m here...”

“Shut it,” Lestrade said, grinning broadly. “Tell us what happened; keep the commentary to yourself.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll bother,” Sherlock said, tucking himself back into his coat. “It isn’t particularly interesting, or difficult. The husband will confess in a minute if you press him.”

“Hang on now,” Anderson protested, but Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Bradstreet, who was peering in, and he went out into the hall.

“What are you doing, barging in on my scene?” Lestrade asked, following Sherlock as he strode out into the hall and then out the door.

“I wanted to offer my services, though they’re hardly necessary in this case,” Sherlock sniffed. He fixed Lestrade with a supercilious glare, though humour still lurked underneath. “Find me something more interesting next time.”

“You want to play detective?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t want to be bored,” Sherlock said, looking up at the sky. He glanced at Lestrade from the corner of his eye. “And I haven’t forgotten.”

Forgotten what, he didn’t say, and Lestrade didn’t need him to say it. It didn’t matter if what he remembered was everything, or just that Lestrade had helped him when he needed help. It was enough that he was here, that he was letting Lestrade know he was alive, and well. Presumably Mycroft was, too, and his heart gave a lurch that wasn’t at all painful.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said softly. He and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock handed him a card.

“If you need me,” was all he said before stalking off. Lestrade looked down at it, at the name, phone number, and email address, all written in a chicken scratch that was just legible--if you already knew what some of it was supposed to say.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said to the street. “Still stalking death.” He put the card in his wallet and looked up at Sally, who was hovering near the door. “Confessed?”

“On the edge,” she said. “Bradstreet will have him in a moment. You heading back?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, and looked up at the sky. It was clear, and he felt light. “Here, you lot can have the car. I’ll get a cab.”

“Sir?” Sally said, and hesitated when Lestrade obligingly waited. “Er. Everything all right?”

“As rain, Donovan,” he said solemnly, and then smiled. She raised her eyebrows at him but said nothing more.

It was a short walk to the main road, and he wondered, what would Mycroft be doing to suit his old role, his highly developed sense of self, now that he was human? He couldn’t really imagine anything, but then, he probably didn’t have to do anything. Probably he had taken the time to sort himself out like St. Clair, and see that he had money enough to attend to his needs.

But, like Sherlock, he’d get bored. Great minds needed great work--or, at least, interesting work, he thought. And that was when he saw the camera.

It was a single CCTV camera, turning toward him. It was nothing special. But there was one across the street as well, turning to face him.

And another, farther down the street, and another, as he turned the corner, and another there even, across the street again. All of them turning, all of them focusing on him, as soon as he was anywhere near their visual field, as if someone were watching out of a new set of eyes.

He skipped the first taxi, and the next, a smile growing on his face as he continued to walk and they continued to turn.

He wondered if there might be tea waiting at home.

*********

fin


End file.
